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THE 


POETICAL  WORKS 


PERCY   BYSSHE    SHELLEY. 


EDITED 


BY  MRS.   SHELLEY. 


Lui  non  trov'  io,  ma  suoi  sanii  vesti^ 

Tulti  rivolti  aila  superna  strada 

Veggio,  lunge  da'  laglii  averni  e  stigi. — Peteaeca. 


PHILADELPHIA: 
CRISSY   &   MARK  LEY,    4    MINOR    STREET. 

STEREOTYPED    BY    L.   JOIIXSON    AND    CO. 

1849. 


//  \a/i,  W^  Ud/m^ 


/ 

to 


PERCY  FLOKENCE  SHELLEY, 

\  ®l)e  |3octical  ttJorks 

OF   HIS   ILLUSTRIOUS   FATHER 

;  ARE    DEDICATED, 

BY    HIS   AFFECTIONATE   MOTHER, 


London, 
20th  January,  1839. 


MARY   WOLLSTONECRAFT   SHELLEY. 


PREFACE. 


BY   THE    EDITOR. 


Obstacles  have  long  existed  to  my  presenting  the  public  with  a  perfect 
edition  of  Shelley's  Poems.  These  being  at  last  happily  removed,  I  hasten  to 
fulfil  an  important  duty, — that  of  giving  the  productions  of  a  sublime  genius 
to  the  world,  with  all  the  correctness  possible,  and  of,  at  the  same  time,  detail- 
ing the  history  of  those  productions,  as  they  sprung,  living  and  warm,  from  his 
heart  and  brain.  I  abstain  from  any  remark  on  the  occurrences  of  his  private 
life ;  except,  inasmuch  as  the  passions  which  they  engendered  inspired  his 
poetry.  This  is  not  the  time  to  relate  the  truth;  and  I  should  reject  any- 
colouring  of  the  truth.  No  account  of  these  events  has  ever  been  given  at  all 
approaching  reality  in  their  details,  either  as  regards  himself  or  others ;  nor 
shall  I  further  allude  to  them  than  to  remark,  that  the  errors  of  action,  com- 
mitted by  a  man  as  noble  and  generous  as  Shelley,  may,  as  far  as  he  only  is 
concerned,  be  fearlessly  avowed,  by  those  wlio  loved  him,  in  the  firm  convic- 
tion, that  were  they  judged  impartially,  his  character  would  stand  in  fairer  and 
brighter  light  than  that  of  any  contemporary.  Whatever  faults  he  had,  ought  to 
find  extenuation  among  his  fellows,  since  they  proved  him  to  be  human ;  with- 
out them,  the  exalted  nature  of  his  soul  would  have  raised  him  into  something 
divine. 

The  qualities  that  struck  any  one  newly  introduced  to  Shelley,  were,  first,  a 
gentle  and  cordial  goodness  that  animated  his  intercourse  with  warm  aflfection, 
and  helpful  sympathy.  The  other,  the  eagerness  and  ardour  with  which  he  was 
attached  to  the  cause  of  human  happiness  and  improvement ;  and  the  fervent 
eloquence  with  which  he  discussed  such  subjects.  His  conversation  was  marked 
by  its  happy  abundance,  and  the  beautiful  language  in  which  he  clothed  his 
poetic  ideas  and  philosophical  notions.  To  defecate  life  of  its  misery  and  its 
evil,  was  the  ruling  passion  of  his  soul :  he  dedicated  to  it  every  power  of  his 
mind,  every  pulsation  of  his  heart.  He  looked  on  political  freedom  as. the  direct 
agent  to  effect  the  happiness  of  mankind ;  and  thus  any  new-sprung  hope  of 
liberty  inspired  a  joy  and  an  exultation  more  intense  and  wild  than  he  could 
have  felt  for  any  personal  advantage.  Those  who  have  never  experienced  the 
workings  of  passion  on  generous  and  unselfish  subjects,  cannot  understand  this  ; 
and  it  must  be  diflficult  of  comprehension  to  the  younger  generation  rising 


EDITOR'S  PREFACE. 


around,  since  they  cannot  remember  the  scorn  and  hatred  with  which  the  par- 
tisans of  reform  were  regarded  some  few  years  ago,  nor  the  persecutions  to 
which  they  were  exposed.  He  had  been  from  youth  the  victim  of  the  state  of 
feeling  inspired  by  the  reaction  of  the  French  Revolution ;  and  believing  firmly 
in  the  justice  and  excellence  of  his  views,  it  cannot  be  wondered  that  a  nature 
as  sensitive,  as  impetuous,  and  as  generous  as  his,  should  put  its  whole  force 
into  the  attempt  to  alleviate  for  others  the  evils  of  those  systems  from  which  he 
had  himself  suffered.  Many  advantages  attended  his  birth  ;  he  spurned  them 
all  when  balanced  with  what  he  considered  his  duties.  He  was  generous  to 
imprudence,  devoted  to  heroism. 

These  characteristics  breathe  throughout  his  poetry.  The  struggle  for  human 
weal ;  the  resolution  firm  to  martyrdom ;  the  impetuous  pursuit ;  the  glad 
triumph  in  good ;  the  determination  not  to  despair.  Such  were  the  features 
that  marked  those  of  his  works  which  he  regarded  with  most  complacency,  as 
sustained  by  a  lofty  subject  and  useful  aim. 

In  addition  to  these,  his  poems  may  be  divided  into  two  classes, — the  purely 
imaginative,  and  those  which  sprung  from  the  emotions  of  his  heart.  Among 
tlie  former  may  be  classed  "  The  Witch  of  Atlas,"  "  Ado^iais,"  and  his  latest 
.composition,  left  imperfect,"^"<"Tlie  Ti'iuniph  of  Life."  In  the  first  of  these  par- 
ticularly, he  gave  the  reins  to  his  fancy,  and  luxuriated  in  every  idea  as  it  rose  ; 
in  all,  there  is  that  sense  of  mystery  which  formed  an  essential  portion  of  his 
perception  of  life — a  clinging  to  the  subtler  inner  spirit,  rather  than  to  the  out- 
ward form — a  curious  and  metaphysical  anatomy  of  human  passion  and  per- 
ception. 


The  second  class  is,  of  course,  the  more  popular,  as  appealing  at  once  to 
emotions  common  to  us  all ;  some  of  these  rest  on  the  passion  of  love ;  others 
on  grief  and  despondency ;  others  on  the  sentiments  inspired  by  natural  objects. 
Shelley's  conception  of  love  was  exalted,  absorbing,  allied  to  all  that  is  purest 
and  noblest  in  our  nature,  and  warmed  by  earnest  passion ;  such  it  appears 
when  he  gave  it  a  voice  in  verse.  Yet  he  was  usually  averse  to  expressing 
these  feelings,  except  when  highly  idealized  ;  and  many  of  his  more  beautiful 
effusions  he  had  cast  aside,  unfinished,  and  they  were  never  seen  by  me  till 
after  I  had  lost  him.  Others,  as,  for  instance,  "  Rosalind  and  Helen,"  and 
<■<■  Lines  written  among  the  Euganean  Hills,"  I  found  among  his  papers  by 
chance ;  and  with  some  difficulty  urged  him  to  complete  them.  There  are 
others,  such  as  the  "  Ode  to  the  Sky  Lark,"  and  "  The  Cloud,"  which,  in  the 
opinion  of  many  critics,  bear  a  purer  poetical  stamp  than  any  other  of  his  pro- 
ductions. They  were  written  as  his  mind  prompted,  listening  to  the  carolling 
of  the  bird,  aloft  in  the  azure  sky  of  Italy ;  or  marking  the  cloud  as  it  sped 
across  the  heavens,  while  he  floated  in  his  boat  on  tlie  Thames. 

No  poet  was  ever  warmed  by  a  more  genuine  and  unforced  inspiration.  His 
extreme  sensibility  gave  the  intensity  of  passion  to  his  intellectual  pursuits;  and 


EDITOR'S  PREFACE. 


rendered  his  mind  keenly  alive  to  every  perception  of  outward  objects,  as  well 
as  to  his  internal  sensations.  Such  a  gift  is,  among  the  sad  vicissitudes  of 
human  life,  the  disappointments  we  meet,  and  the  galling  sense  of  our  own 
mistakes  and  errors,  fraught  with  pain ;  to  escape  from  such,  he  delivered  up 
his  soul  to  poetry,  and  felt  happy  when  he  sheltered  himself  from  the  influence 
of  human  sympathies,  in  the  wildest  regions  of  fancy.  His  imagination  has 
been  termed  too  brilliant,  his  thoughts  too  subtle.  He  loved  to  idealize  reality; 
and  this  is  a  taste  shared  by  few.  We  are  willing  to  have  our  passing  whims 
exalted  into  passions,  for  this  gratifies  our  vanity ;  but  few  of  us  understand  or  * 
sympathize  with  the  endeavour  to  ally  the  love  of  abstract  beauty,  and  adoration 
of  abstract  good,  the  r6  dya^w  xal  to  xaxov  of  the  Socratic  philosophers,  with  our 
sympathies  with  our  kind.  In  this  Shelley  resembled  Plato  ;  both  taking  more 
delight  in  the  abstract  and  the  ideal,  than  in  the  special  and  tangible.  This  did 
not  result  from  imitation  ;  for  it  was  not  till  Shelley  resided  in  Italy  that  he  made 
Plato  his  study ;  he  then  translated  his  Symposium  and  his  Ion ;  and  the  English 
language  boasts  of  no  more  brilliant  composition,  than  Plato's  Praise  of  Love, 
translated  by  Shelley.  To  return  to  his  ow^n  poetry.  The  luxury  of  imagina- 
tion, which  sought  nothing  beyond  itself,  as  a  child  burdens  itself  wdth  spring 
flowers,  thinking  of  no  use  beyond  the  enjoyment  of  gathering  them,  often 
show^ed  itself  in  his  verses :  they  will  be  only  appreciated  by  minds  which  have 
resemblance  to  his  own  ;  and  the  mystic  subtlety  of  many  of  his  thoughts  will 
share  the  same  fate.  The  metaphysical  strain  that  characterizes  much  of  what 
he  has  written,  was,  indeed,  the  portion  of  his  works  to  which,  apart  from  those 
whose  scope  was  to  awaken  mankind  to  aspirations  for  what  he  considered  the 
true  and  good,  he  was  himself  particularly  attached.  There  is  much,  however, 
that  speaks  to  the  many.  When  he  would  consent  to  dismiss  these  huntings 
after  the  obscure,  which,  entwined  with  his  nature  as  they  were,  he  did  with 
difficulty,  no  poet  ever  expressed  in  sweeter,  more  heart-reaching,  or  more  pas- 
sionate verse,  the  gentler  or  more  forcible  emotions  of  the  soul. 

A  wise  friend  once  wTote  to  Shelley,  "  You  are  still  very  young,  and  in  cer- 
tain essential  respects  you  do  not  yet  sufficiently  perceive  that  you  are  so."  It  is 
seldom  that  the  young  knoww^hat  youth  is,  till  they  have  got  beyond  its  period; 
and  time  was  not  given  him  to  attain  this  knowdedge.  It  must  be  remembered 
that  there  is  the  stamp  of  such  inexperience  on  all  he  wTote  ;  he  had  not  com- 
pleted his  nine-and-twentieth  year  w^hen  he  died.  The  calm  of  middle  life  did 
not  add  the  seal  of  the  virtues  which  adorn  maturity  to  those  generated  by  the 
vehement  spirit  of  youth.  Through  life  also  he  was  a  martyr  to  ill  health,  and 
constant  pain  wound  up  his  nerves  to  a  pitch  of  susceptibility  that  rendered  his 
views  of  life  different  from  those  of  a  man  in  the  enjoyment  of  healthy  sensations. 
Perfectly  gentle  and  forbearing  in  manner,  he  suffered  a  good  deal  of  internal 
irritability,  or  rather  excitement,  and  his  fortitude  to  bear  was  almost  always  on 
the  stretch ;  and  thus,  during  a  short  life,  had  gone  through  more  experience 
of  sensation,  than  many  wdiose  existence  is  protracted.  "  If  I  die  to-morrow," 
he  said,  on  the  eve  of  his  unanticipated  death,  '<  I  have  lived  to  be  older  than 
my  father."     The  weight  of  thought  and  feeling  burdened  him  heavily;  you 


EDITOR'S  PREFACE. 


read  his  sufferings  in  his  attenuated  frame,  while  you  perceived  the  mastery  he 
held  over  them  in  his  animated  countenance  and  brilliant  eyes. 

He  died,  and  the  world  showed  no  outward  sign ;  but  his  influence  over 
mankind,  though  slow  in  gro\\'th,  is  fast  augmenting,  and  in  the  ameliorations 
that  have  taken  place  in  the  political  state  of  his  country,  we  may  trace  in  part 
the  operation  of  his  arduous  struggles.  His  spirit  gathers  peace  in  its  new  state 
from  the  sense  that,  though  late,  his  exertions  were  not  made  in  vain,  and  in 
the  progress  of  tlie  liberty  he  so  fondly  loved. 

He  died,  and  his  place  among  those  who  knew  him  intimately  has  never 
been  filled  up.  He  walked  beside  them  like  a  spirit  of  good  to  comfort  and 
benefit — to  enlighten  the  darkness  of  life  with  irradiations  of  genius,  to  cheer  it 
with  his  sympathy  and  love.  Any  one,  once  attached  to  Shelley,  must  feel  all 
other  affections,  however  true  and  fond,  as  wasted  on  barren  soil  in  comparison. 
It  is  our  best  consolation  to  know  that  such  a  pure-minded  and  exalted  being 
was  once  among  us,  and  now  exists  where  we  hope  one  day  to  join  him : — 
although  the  intolerant,  in  their  blindness,  poured  down  anathemas,  the  Spirit 
of  Good,  who  can  judge  the  heart,  never  rejected  him. 

In  the  notes  appended  to  the  poems,  I  have  endeavoured  to  narrate  the  origin 
and  history  of  each.  The  loss  of  nearly  all  letters  and  papers  which  refer  to  his . 
early  life,  renders  the  execution  more  imperfect  than  it  would  otherwise  have 
been.  I  have,  however,  the  liveliest  recollection  of  all  that  was  done  and  said 
during  the  period  of  my  knowing  him.  Every  impression  is  as  clear  as  if 
stamped  yesterday,  and  I  have  no  apprehension  of  any  mistake  in  my  statements 
as  far  as  they  go.  In  other  respects,  I  am,  indeed,  incompetent :  but  I  feel  the 
importance  of  the  task,  and  regard  it  as  ray  most  sacred  duty.  I  endeavour  to 
fulfil  it  in  a  manner  he  would  himself  approve  ;  and  hope  in  this  publication  to 
lay  the  first  stone  of  a  monument  due  to  Shelley's  genius,  his  sufferings,  and  his 
virtues : 

S'  al  seguir  son  tarda, 
Forse  avverra  che  '1  bel  nome  gentile 
Consacrero  con  questa  stanca  penna. 


EDITOR'S  PREFACE. 


POSTSCRIPT. 

In  revising  this  new  edition,  and  carefully  consulting  Shelley's  scattered  and 
confused  papers,  I  found  a  few  fragments  which  had  hitherto  escaped  me,  and 
was  enabled  to  complete  a  few  poems  hitherto  left  unfinished.  What  at  one 
time  escapes  the  searching  eye,  dimmed  by  its  own  earnestness,  becomes  clear 
at  a  future  period.  By  the  aid  of  a  friend  I  also  present  some  poems  complete 
and  correct,  which  hitherto  have  been  defaced  by  various  mistakes  and  omis- 
sions. It  was  suggested  that  the  Poem  "  To  the  Queen  of  my  Heart,"  was 
falsely  attributed  to  Shelley.  I  certainly  find  no  trace  of  it  among  his  papers, 
and  as  those  of  his  intimate  friends  whom  I  have  consulted  never  heard  of  it, 
I  omit  it. 

Two  Poems  are  added  of  some  length,  "  Swellfoot  the  T}Tant,"  and  "  Peter 
Bell  the  Third."  I  have  mentioned  the  circumstances  under  which  they  were 
written  in  the  notes ;  and  need  only  add,  that  they  are  conceived  in  a  very  dif- 
ferent spirit  from  Shelley's  usual  compositions.  They  are  specimens  of  the 
burlesque  and  fanciful ;  but  although  they  adopt  a  familiar  style  and  homely 
imagery,  there  shine  through  the  radiance  of  the  poet's  imagination  the  earnest 
views  and  opinions  of  the  politician  and  the  moralist. 

At  my  request  the  publisher  has  restored  the  omitted  passages  of  Queen 
Mab. — I  now  present  this  edition  as  a  complete  collection  of  my  husband's 
poetical  works,  and  I  do  not  foresee  that  I  can  hereafter  add  to  or  take  away  a 
word  or  line. 


Putney,  November  6th,  1339. 


[~ 


CONTENTS. 


,  PAGE 

QUEEN   MAB    .        . 17 

TO    HAHHIET    ***•              ,            ,            ,            ,            ,            ,            ,            ,            ,            ,  .ib. 

NOTES 36 

NOTE     BT    THE    EDITOR         .             ..             •             •             •             •             •             •             .  .56 

ALASTOR ;   OR,   THE    SPIRIT   OF    SOLITUDE  .        .        .'        .        .        .  60 

NOTE     BT    THE    EDITOR         .              .             .'.             .             .             •             •             .             .  .66 

THE   REVOLT   OF   ISLAM.     A   POEM,   IN   TWELVE    CANTOS    .        .  68 

NOTE     BI    THE    EDITOR         .              .              .              .             .             .              .              .              .              .  .116 

PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND.     A   LYRICAL   DRAMA,   IN   FOUR   ACTS  118 

NOTE     BT    THE    EDITOR                 ..........  146 

THE    CENCL     A   TRAGEDY,   IN   FIVE   ACTS      .        ."        .        .        .  .150 

NOTE    BY    THE    EDITOR                 ... 180 

RELATION    OF    THE    DEATH    OF    THE    FAMILT    OF    THE    CENCI  ....       183 


V 


ELLAS.     A   LYRICAL   DRAMA  . .189 

NOTES ■        .       201 

•  NOTE     BT    THE    EDITOR  ..........  203 

CEDIPUS  TYRANNUS;  OR,  SWELLFOOT  THE  TYRANT.     A  TRAGEDY, 

IN   TWO    ACTS -205 

NOTE     BT    THE    EDITOR  ..........  215 

EARLY   POEMS— 

MUTABILITT 216 

ON     DEATH       ............  ib. 

A    SUMMER-EVENING     CHURrH-T  ARD,    LECHDALE,    GLOUCESTERSHIRE     .  .  .lb. 

TO  *  *  *  *    .         .         .        .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         ,         ib. 

11 


CONTENTS. 


EARLY  POEMS—  p/,ge 

STANZAS. — APnii.,  1814 217 

xiN£s .  ib. 

y^O  -WOllDSWOIlTH •          .  ib. 

FEELINGS  OF  A  REPUBLICAN  ON  TUE  FALL  OF  BONAPAHTE   ....  218 

NOTE  BT  THE  EDITOR ib. 

POEMS   WRITTEN   IN   MDCCCXVL— 

THE    SUNSET 219 

/  HTMN    TO    INTELLECTUAL    BEAUTX ib. 

MONT    BLANC.       LINES    WRITTEN    IN    THE    VALE    OF    CHAMOUNI                .            .            .  220 

NOTE    BT    THE    EDITOR                ........'.  221 

POEMS   WRITTEN   IN   MDCCCXVII.— 

PRINCE    ATHANASE.       A    FRAGMENT      .........  223 

FART    I. ib. 

FRAGMENTS  OF  PRINCE  ATHANASE.   PART  II. 224 

FRAGMENT  I. ib. 

FRAGMENT  II. 225 

FRAGMENT  III ib. 

FRAGMENT  IT.  ............  226 

Marianne's  dream      ...........  ib. 

TO  CONSTANTIA  SINGING      ..........  227 

TO  CONSTANTIA 228 

DEATH ib. 

'/sonnet. OZTMANDIAS               ...» •  ib. 

ON  F.  G.     .          .          .        ' ib. 

LINES    TO    A    CRITIC         ...........  ib. 

LINES ib. 

NOTE    BT    THE    EDITOR                ...«•.....  229 

POEMS   WRITTEN   IN   MDCCCXVIII.— 

ROSALIND    AND    HELEN-       ...........  231 

LINES    WRITTEN    AMONG    THE    EUGANEAN    HILLS     ......'  242 

JULIAN    AND    MADELLO.       A    CONVERSATION           .......  246 

PASSAGE    OF    THE    APENNINES             .........  252 

THE    PAST              .............  ib. 

THE    WOODMAN    AND    THE    NIGHTINGALE            .......  ib. 

TO    MART 253 

ON    A    FADED    VIOLET      .              .              • '  .             .  ib. 

','  MISEHT. A    FRAGMENT ib. 

STANZAS.       WRITTEN    IN    DEJECTION,    NEAR    NAPLES 254 

MAZENGHI             .............  ib. 


■/: 


CONTENTS.  13 


PACK 


POEMS   WRITTEN   IN   MDCCCXVIII.— 

SONG    FOR    TASSO    .  .  .  , ,  .  254 

V^  SONNET 255 

NOTE    BY    THE    EDITOR  .  '  .  lb. 

POEMS   WRITTEN   IN   MDCCCXIX.— 

THE    JIASaUE    OF    ANAHCHT 257 

PETEIl    BELL    THE    THIRD 262 

PART    I.  DEATH 264 

PART    II.       THE    DETIL    . 265 

PART    III.      HELL ib. 

PART    ly.       SIN 267 

PART    T.         GRACE 268 

PART    VI.       DAMNATION 269 

PART    VII.    DOUBLE    DAMNATION  . 271 

LINES    WRITTEN    DURING    THE    CASTLEREAGH    ADMINISTRATION      .  .  .  273 

SONG    TO    THE    MEN    OF    ENGLAND         .........  ib. 

SIMILES,    FOR    TWO    POLITICAL    CHARACTERS    OF     1819 ib. 

AN    ODE,    TO    THE    ASSERTORS    OF    LIBERTY  .......  ib. 

^NGLAND    IN    1819 274 

ODE    TO    HEAVEN  ............  ib. 

I^PDE  TO  THE  WEST  ■WIND   ..........  275 

AN  EXHORTATION ib. 

TO  WILLIAM  SHELLEY 276 

ON  THE  MEDUSA  OF  LEONARDI  DA  TINCI,  IN  THE  FLORENTINE  GALLERY    •  ib. 

NOTE  BY  THE  EDITOR      ..     .     .     ,     .     .     .     ,     .  277 

POEMS   WRITTEN   IN   MDCCCXX.— 

THE  SENSITIVE  PLANT 280 

PART  I. •••*...  ib. 

PART  II 281 

PART  III ib. 

CONCLUSION    ............  283 

A  VISION  OF  THE  SEA ib. 

'"f     THE  CLOUD 285 

love's    philosophy         ...........  ib.     mmt 

TO  286  -' 

■  /    TO    A    SKYLARK ib. 

ODE    TO    LIBERTY 287 

ARETHUSA 290 

SONG    OF    PROSERPINE,    WHILE    GATHERING    FLOWERS    ON    THE    PLAIN    OF    ENNA  ib. 

HYMN    OP    APOLLO 291 

B 


/^ 


14 


CONTENTS. 


POEMS   WRITTEN   IN   MDCCCXX.—  page 

HTMIT    OF    PAX 291 

THE    auKSTION  .  .  .  ...  .  .  .  .  .  .  .*ib. 

TUE  TWO  spiniTS.     AX  allegohy 292 

LETTEH    TO    MAIIIA    GISBORXE    ..........  ib. 

TO     MAnr,    ox     HER     OBJKCTINO     TO    THE     FOLXOWIXG    POEM,    UPOX    TUE     SCORE 

OF    ITS    COXTAIXIXG    XO    HUMAX    IXTEREST      ......  295 

TUE    WITCH    OF    ATLAS          ...........  lb. 

ODE    TO    XAPLES      ............  301 

*«  1.    AUTUMX.       A    DIRGE  ...'...•..••.  303 

THE    •WAXIXO    MOOX         ..•.•••••..  lb. 

DEATH .  ib. 

tlBERTT ib. 

TO    THE    MOOX  .........  ...ib. 

SUMMER    AXD    WIXTEH ib. 

THE    TOWER    OF    FAMIXE     .            .'.            •            •            •            .            •            •            •            .  304 

AX    AI.LEGORT ib. 

THE  world's  waxderers        ..........ib. 

SOXXET ib. 

LIXES    TO    A    B.ETIEWER      .             .            •            .            .            •            .            »            •            .'.  ib. 

NOTE    BY    THE    EDITOR              .......••.  305 


POEMS   WRITTEN   IN   MDCCCXXI.— 

EPIPSrCHIDIOX:    TERSES    addressed    TO    THE    XOBLE  AXD  UXFORTUXATE  LADT 

EMILIA    T ,    XOW    IMPRISOXED    IX    THE    COXVEXT    OF    .            .            .  307 

N4DOXAIS;    AX    ELEGY    OX    THE    DEATH    OF    JOHX    KEATS                ....  313 

^TO    E**T*** 319 

TIME ib. 

J  FROM  THE  ARABIC.   AX  IMITATIOX ib. 

i  VO  XIGHT      .............  ib. 

TO  ib. 

SL  MUTABILITY              ............  320 

TUE    FUGITITES  ............ib. 

LIXES ••«..  ib. 

TO  .        .        . ib. 

SONG      ..............  321 

TO  ib. 

LIXES    WRITTEX    OX    HEARIXG    THE    XEW3    OF    THE    DEATH    OF    X^OLEOX        .  ib. 

A    FRAGMEXT      .............  3"^ 

GIXETRA          .............  lb. 

TUE    DIRGE 324 

EVEXIXO.       POXTE    A    KARE,    PISA              ........  ID. 


CONTENTS.  15 


POEMS   WRITTEN   IN   MDCCCXXL—  p^^e 

To-Monnow           ............  324 

A    BHIDAI.    SONG            .            . lb. 

/ K    tAMENT ib. 

\     THE    BOAT,    OX    THE    SEHCHIO .            .  325 

THE    AZIOI.A ib. 

A    FRAGMENT 326 

TO  ib. 

GOOD-XIGUT .ib.    < 

LIKES    TO    AN    INDIAN    AIB lb. 

MUSIC ib. 

TO  32T 

^00*.    LADIENT .            .  ib. 

SONNET.       POLITICAL    GREATNESS               .            ,' ib. 

DIRGE    FOR    THE    YEAR lb. 

NOTE    BT    THE    EDITOR               .            .                         « 328 

POEMS   WRITTEN   IN   MDCCCXXII.— 

THE  ZUCCA     . ••....  330 

TO  A  XADT  WITH  A  GUITAR     .     .     .     .     *    '.     .     .     .  331 

THE  MAGNETIC  lADT  TO  HER  PATIENT  ........  ib. 

FRAGMENTS  OF  AN  UNFINISHED  DRAMA 332 

TO  ""— ™-^     .•••««^«*....  oo^ 

THE    INTITATION lb. 

THE    RECOLLECTION 334 

A    SONG 335 

««^INES ib. 

THE    ISLE ib. 

CHARLES    THE    FIRST,    A    FRAGMENT                 .            .            •            .            .            •            .            •  336 

THE    TRIUMPH    OF    LIFE              ■•.....•.•  340 

FRAGMENTS          ...; 346 

KOTE    BT    THE    EDITOR 349 

lEEFACE    TO    THE    TOLUME    OF    POSTHUMOUS    POEMS    PUBLISHED    IN    1822               .  353 

TRANSLATIONS- 
HYMNS    OF    HOMER. 

HYMN  TO  MERCURY 357 

TO  CASTOR  AND  POLLUX   ........  364 

TO  THE  MOON      ..........lb. 

TO  THE  SUN 365 

TO  THE  EARTH,  MOTHER  OF  ALL   ....•••  ib. 

TO  MINERTA ib. 


16  CONTENTS. 


TRANSLATIONS-  page 

THE     CYCLOPS  ;     A    SATTHIC    DRAMA,    TRANSLATED    TROTS    T^E    GREEK    OF    ErRI- 

FIDES 366 

SPIRIT    OF    PLATO,    FROM    THE    GREEK 376 

FROM    THE    GREEK      .             .     * lb. 

TO    STELLA ib> 

FROM    PLATO lb. 

SONNETS    FROM    THE    GREEK    OF    MOSCHrS        .......  ib. 

SONNET    FROM    THE    ITALIAN    OF    DANTE     .    -        •  .  .  .  .  .  .lb. 

SCENES    FROM    THE    "MAGICO    PRODIGIOSo"    OF    CALDERON       .            .            .            .  377 

SCENES    FROM    THE    FAUST    OF    GOETHE 385 


THE 


POETICAL  AYOEKS 


OF 


PERCY  BYSSIIE   SHELLEY. 


TO   HARRIET    *  *  *  * 


Whose  is  the  Iovp  that,  gleaming  through  the  world, 
Wards  off  the  poisonous  arrow  of  its  scorn  1 
Whose  is  the  warm  and  partial  praise, 
Virtue's  most  sweet  reward  ? 

Beneath  whose  looks  did  my  reviving  soul 
Riper  in  truth  and  virtuous  daring  grow  ] 
Whose  eyes  have  I  gazed  fondly  on, 
And  loved  mankind  the  more  1 


Harriet !  on  tliine  : — thou  were  my  purer  mind; 
Thou  wert  the  inspiration  of  my  song ; 

Thine  are  these  early  wilding  flowers, 

Though  garlanded  by  me. 

Then  press  into  thy  breast  this  pledge  of  love, 
And  know,  though  time  may  change  and  years  may 

Each  flovv'rct  gather'd  in  my  heart,  [roll. 

It  consecrates  to  thine. 


QUEEN  MAB. 


How  wonderful  is  Death, 

Death  and  his  brother  Sleep ! 
One.  pale  as  yonder  waning  moon, 

With  lips  of  lurid  blue; 

The  other,  rosy  as  the  morn 
When  throned  on  ocean's  wave, 

It  blushes  o'er  the  world: 
Yet  both  so  passing  wonderful ! 

Hath  then  the  gloomy  power 
Whose  reign  is  in  the  tainted  sepulchres. 
Seized  on  her  sinless  soul  ] 
Must  then  that  peerless  form 
Which  love  and  admiration  cannot  view 
Without  a  beating  heart,  those  azure  veins 
Which  steal  like  streams  along  a  field  of  snow. 
That  lovely  outline,  which  is  fair 
As  breathing  marble,  perish  1 
Must  putrefaction's  breath 
Leave  nothing  of  this  heavenly  sight 

But  loathsomeness  and  ruin  1 
Sparc  notliing  but  a  gloomy  theme, 
On  which  the  lightest  heart  might  morahze  T 
Or  is  it  only  a  sweet  slumber 
Stealing  o'er  sensation. 
Which  the  breath  of  roseate  morning 
Chasetii  into  darkness  1 
3 


Will  Tantlie  wake  again, 
And  give  that  faithful  bosom  joy 
Whose  sleepless  spirit  waits  to  catch 
Liglit,  life,  and  rapture  from  her  smile  ? 

Yes !  she  will  wake  again, 
Although  her  glowing  limbs  are  motionless. 
And  silent  those  sweet  lips, 
Once  breathing  eloquence 
That  might  have  soothed  a  tiger's  rage, 
Or  thawed  the  cold  heart  of  a  conqueror. 
Her  dewy  ej'es  are  closed, 
And  on  their  hds,  whose  texture  fine 
Scarce  hides  the  dark  blue  orbs  beneath, 
(         The  baby  Sleep  is  j)iIIow'd : 
Her  golden  tresses  shade 
The  bosom's  stainless  pride. 
Curling  like  tcndrOs  of  the  parasite 
Around  a  marble  column. 

Hark  !  whence  that  rushing  sound  ] 

'Tis  like  the  wondrous  strain 
That  round  a  lonely  ruin  swells. 
Which,  wandering  on  the  echoing  shore, 

The  enthusiast  hears  at  evening: 
'Tis  softer  than  the  west  wind's  sigh ; 
'Tis  wilder  than  the  unmeasured  notes 
Of  that  strange  lyre  whose  strings 
The  genii  of  the  breezes  sweep : 

n  -2  17 


18 


QUEEN    MAB. 


Those  lines  of  rainbow  light 
Are  Iiacj  ll^e  moon'jcanie  w'lcr  they  fall 
Through  son'^e  cathc'dral  wirtlov,  but  the  teints 
Arc  such  as  may  not  lind 
Corrpuri'ion  on  e-irrh. 
Bv'hold  the  chaiio>  of  tho  Fairv  (^"uecn! 
Celestial  coursers  paw  the  uriyiekling  air; 
Their  filmy  pennons  at  her  word  they  furl, 
And  stop  obedient  to  the  reins  of  light: 
These  the  Queen  of  Spells  drew  in, 
^le  spread  a  charm  around  the  spot, 
And  leaning  graceful  from  the  ethereal  car, 
Long  did  she  gaze,  and  silently 
Upon  the  slumbering  maid. 
Oh !  not  the  visioncd  poet  in  his  dreams. 
When  silvery  clouds  float  through  the  wilder'd  brain, 
When  every  sight  of  lovely,  wild  and  grand, 
Astonishes,  enraptures,  elevates — 
When  fancy  at  a  glance  combines 
The  wond'rous  and  the  beautiful, — 
So  bright,  so  fair,  so  wild  a  shape 
Hath  ever  yet  beheld. 
As  that  which  reined  the  coursers  of  the  air, 
And  poured  the  magic  of  her  gaze 
Upon  the  sleeping  maid. 

The  broad  and  yellow  moon 
Shone  dimly  through  her  form — 

That  form  of  faultless  symmetry  ; 

The  pearly  and  pellucid  car 

Moved  not  the  moonlight's  line : 
'Twas  not  an  earthly  pageant ; 

Those  who  had  looked  upon  the  sight, 
Passing  all  human  glory. 
Saw  not  the  yellow  moon. 
Saw  not  the  mortal  scene, 
Heard  not  the  night-wind's  rush. 
Heard  not  an  earthly  sound, 
Saw  but  the  fairy  pageant. 
Heard  hut  tlie  heavenly  strains 
That  fill'd  the  lonely  dwelling. 

The  Fairj-'s  frame  was  slight ;  yon  fibrous  cloud. 
That  catches  but  the  palest  tinge  of  even. 
And  which  the  straining  eye  can  hardly  seize 
When  melting  into  eastern  twilight's  shadow. 
Were  scarce  so  thin,  so  slight ;  but  the  fair  star 
That  gems  the  glittering  coronet  of  morn. 
Sheds  not  a  light  so  mild,  so  powerful. 
As  that  which,  bursting  from  the  Fairy's  form, 
Spread  a  purpurea!  halo  round  the  scene, 
Yet  with  an  undulating  motion. 
Swayed  to  her  outline  gracefully. 
From  her  celestial  car 
The  Fairy  Queen  descended. 
And  thrice  she  waved  her  wand 
Circled  with  wreaths  of  amaranth: 
Her  thin  and  misty  form 
Moved  with  the  moving  air, 
And  the  clear  silver  tones. 
As  thus  she  spoke,  were  such 
As  arc  unheard  by  sdl  but  gifted  car. 

FAinr. 
Stars !  your  balmiest  influence  shed  ! 
Elements  !  your  wrath  suspend  I 


Sleep,  Ocean,  in  the  rocky  bounds 

That  circle  thy  domain  ! 
Let  not  a  breath  be  seen  to  stir 
Around  yon  grass-grown  ruin's  height, 
Let  even  the  restless  gossamer 
Sleep  on  the  moveless  air ! 
Soul  of  laiithe  !   thou 
Judged  alone  worthy  of  the  envied  boon 
That  waits  the  good  and  the  sincere ;  that  waits 
Those  who  have  struggled,  and  with  resolute  will 
Vanquish'd  earth's  j)ride  and  meanness,  burst  the 
The  icy  chains  of  custom,  and  have  shone  [chains. 
The  day-stars  of  their  age ; — Soul  of  lauthe, 
Awake !   arise ! 

Sudden  arose 
lanthe's  Soul ;  it  stood 
All  beautiful  in  naked  purity, 
The  perfect  semblance  of  its  bodily  frame. 
Instinct  with  inexpressible  beauty  and  grace, 
Each  stain  of  earthliness 
Had  passed  away,  it  reassumed 
Its  native  dignity,  and  stood 
Immortal  amid  ruin. 

Upon  the  couch  the  body  lay. 
Wrapt  in  the  depth  of  slumber; 
Its  features  were  fixed  and  meaningless, 
Yet  animal  life  was  there. 
And  everj'  organ  yet  performed 
Its  natural  functions;  'twas  a  sight 
Of  wonder  to  behold  the  body  and  soul. 
The  self-same  lineaments,  the  same 
Marks  of  identity  were  there  ; 
Yet,  oh  how  different !     One  aspires  to  heaven, 
Pants  for  its  sempiternal  heritage, 
And  ever-changing,  ever-rising  still, 

Wantons  in  endless  being. 
The  other,  for  a  time  the  unwilling  sport 
Of  circumstance  and  passion,  struggles  on ; 
Fleets  through  its  sad  duration  raj)idly ; 
Then  like  a  useless  and  worn-out  machine. 
Rots,  perishes,  and  passes. 


Spirit !  who  hast  dived  so  deep ; 
Spirit !  who  hast  soar'd  so  high  ; 
Thou  the  fearless,  thou  the  mild. 
Accept  the  boon  thy  worth  hath  earned, 
Ascend  the  car  with  me. 

spiniT. 
Do  I  dream  ?     Is  this  new  feeling 
But  a  vision'd  ghost  of  slumber  1 

If  indeed  I  am  a  soul, 
A  free,  a  disembodied  soul. 
Speak  again  to  me. 

FAIHT. 

I  am  the  Fairy  Mab  :  to  me  'tis  given 
The  wonders  of  the  human  world  to  keep. 
The  secrets  of  the  immeasurable  past. 
In  the  unfailing  consciences  of  men. 
Those  stern,  unflattering  chroniclers,  I  find: 
The  future,  from  the  causes  which  arise 
In  each  event,  I  gather :  not  the  sting 
M'hich  retributive  memory  implants 


QUEEN    MAB. 


19 


In  the  hard  hosom  of  the  selfish  man ; 
Nor  that  ecstatic  and  exuhins  throb 
Whicli  virtue's  votary  feels  when  he  sums  up 
The  thoughts  and  actions  of  a  well-spent  day, 
Are  unforeseen,  unregistered  hy  me : 
And  it  is  yet  permitted  me,  to  rend 
The  veil  of  mortal  frailty,  that  the  spirit, 
Clothed  in  its  changeless  purity,  may  know 
How  soonest  to  accomjilish  the  great  end 
For  which  it  hath  its  be  inp;,  and  may  taste 
That  peace,  which  in  the  end  all  life  will  share. 
This  is  the  meed  of  virtue ;  happy  Soul 
Ascend  the  car  with  me ! 
The  chains  of  earth's  immurement 
Fell  from  lanthe's  spirit ; 
They  shrank  and  brake  like  bandages  of  straw, 
Beneath  a  waken'd  giant's  strength. 
She  knew  her  glorious  change, 
And  felt,  in  apprehension  uncontroU'd 

New  raptures  opening  round  : 
Each  day-dream  of  her  mortal  life. 
Each  frenzied  vision  of  the  slumbers 
That  closed  each  well-spent  day, 
Seem'd  now  to  meet  reality. 

The  Fairy  and  the  Soul  proceeded ; 
The  silver  clouds  disparted  ; 
And  as  the  car  of  magic  they  ascended. 
Again  the  speechless  music  swell'd, 
Again  the  coursers  of  the  air 
Unfurl'd  their  azure  pennons,  and  the  Queen, 
Shaking  the  beamy  reins. 
Bade  them  pursue  their  way. 

The  magic  car  moved  on.  ' 
The  night  was  fair,  and  countless  stars 
Studded  heaven's  dark-blue  vault, — 

Just  o'er  the  eastern  wave 
Peeped  the  first  faint  smile  of  morn : — 
The  magic  car  moved  on — 
From  the  celestial  hoofs 
The  atmosphere  in  flaming  sparkles  flew, 

And  where  the  burning  wheels 
Eddied  above  the  mountains  loftiest  peak, 
Was  traced  a  line  of  lightning. 
Now  it  flew  far  above  a  rock, 
The  utmost  verge  of  earth. 
The  rival  of  the  Andes,  whose  dark  brow 
Lower'd  o'er  the  silver  sea. 
Far,  far  below  the  chariot's  path, 
Calm  as  a  slumbering  babe, 
Tremendous  Ocean  lay. 
The  mirror  of  its  stillness  show'd 
The  pale  and  waning  stars, 
The  chariot's  fiery  track. 
And  the  gray  light  of  mom 
Tinging  those  fleecy  clouds 
That  canopied  the  dawn. 
Sccm'd  it,  that  the  chariot's  way 
Lay  through  the  midst  of  an  immense  concave, 
Radiant  with  million  constellations,  tinged 
With  shades  of  infinite  colour. 
And  semicircled  with  a  belt 
Flashing  incessant  meteors. 
The  magic  car  moved  on. 
As  they  approach'd  their  goal 


The  coursers  seem'd  to  gather  speed  ; 
The  sea  no  longer  was  distinguish'd ;  earth 
Appear'd  a  vast  and  shadowy  sjihere ; 
'J'he  sun's  unclouded  orl) 
RoH'd  through  the  black  concave  ; 
Its  rays  of  rapid  light 
Parted  around  the  chariot's  swifter  course, 
And  fell,  like  ocean's  feathery  spray 
Dash'd  from  the  boiling  surge 
Before  a  vessel's  prow. 

The  magic  car  moved  on. 
Earth's  distant  orb  appear'd 
The  smallest  light  that  twinkles  in  the  heaven; 
Whilst  round  the  chariot's  way 
Innumerable  systems  roH'd, 
And  countless  spheres  difi'used 
An  ever-varying  glory. 
It  was  a  sight  of  wonder :  some 
Were  horned  like  the  crescent  moon ; 
Some  shed  a  mild  and  silver  beam 
Like  Hesperus  o'er  the  western  sea ; 
Some  dasli'd  athwart  with  trains  of  flame, 
Like  worlds  to  death  and  ruin  driven  ; 
Some  shone  like  suns,  and  as  the  chaiiot  pass'd 
Eclipsed  all  other  light. 

Spirit  of  Nature,  here  ! 
In  this  interminable  wilderness 
Of  worlds,  at  whose  immensity 

E'en  soaring  fancy  staggers, — 
Here  is  thy  fitting  temple. 
Yet  not  the  lightest  leaf 
That  quivers  to  the  passing  breeze 
Is  less  instinct  with  thee; 
Yet  not  the  meanest  worm 
That  lurks  in  graves  and  fattens  on  the  dead, 
Less  shares  thy  eternal  breath. 

Spirit  of  Nature  !  thou. 
Imperishable  as  this  scene, — 
Here  is  thy  fitting  temple  ! 


n. 

If  solitude  hath  ever  led  thy  steps 
To  the  wild  ocean's  echoing  shore, 

And  thou  hast  linger'd  there 

Until  the  sun's  broad  orb 
Seem'd  resting  on  the  burnish'd  wave. 

Thou  must  have  mark'd  the  hues 
Of  purple  gold,  that  motionless 

Hung  o'er  the  sinking  sphere: 
Thou  must  have  mark'd  the  billowy  clouds 
Edged  with  intolerable  radiancy, 

Towering  like  rocks  of  jet 

Crown'd  with  a  diamond  wreath. 

And  yet  there  is  a  moment 

When  the  sun's  highest  point 
Peeps  like  a  star  o'er  ocean's  western  edge. 
When  those  far  clouds  of  feathery  gold. 
Shaded  with  deepest  purple,  gleam 
Like  islands  on  a  dark-blue  sea ; 
Then  has  thy  fancy  soar'd  above  the  earth, 

And  furl'd  its  wearied  wing 

Within  the  Fairv's  fane. 


20 


QUEEN    MAB. 


Yft  not  the  golden  islands, 
Gleaming  in  yon  flood  of  light, 

Nor  the  foather_y  curtains 
Stretching  o"er  the  sun's  jjright  couch, 
Nor  the  burnish'd  ocean-waves, 
Paving  that  gorgeous  dome. 
So  fair,  so  wonderful  a  sight 
As  Alah's  ethereal  palace  could  alTord. 
Vet  likest  evening's  vault,  that  fairy  Hall ! 
As  Heaven,  low  rcsling  on  the  vv;ive,  it  spread 
Its  floors  of  flashing  light, 
Its  vast  and  azure  dome, 
Its  fertile  golden  islands 
Floating  on  a  silver  sea ; 
Whilst  suns  their  mingling  beamings  darted 
Through  clouds  of  circumambient  darkness, 
And  pearly  battlements  around 
Look'd  o'er  the  immense  of  Heaven. 

The  magic  car  no  longer  moved. 
The  Fairy  and  the  Spirit 
Entered  the  Hall  of  Spells : 
Tliose  golden  clouds 
That  roll'd  in  glittering  billows 
Beneath  the  azure  canopy, 
With  the  ethereal  footsteps  trembled  not : 

The  light  and  crimson  mists, 
Floating  to  strains  of  thrilling  melody 
Through  that  unearthly  dwelling, 
Yielded  to  every  movement  of  the  will. 
Upon  their  passive  swell  the  Spirit  lean'd. 
And,  for  the  varied  bliss  that  press'd  around, 
Used  not  the  glorious  privilege 
Of  virtue  and  of  wisdom. 

Spirit !  the  Fairy  said, 
And  pointed  to  the  gorgeous  dome, — 

This  is  a  wondrous  sight, 
And  mocks  all  human  grandeur; 
But,  were  it  virtue's  only  meed,  to  dwell 
In  a  celestial  palace,  all  resign'd 
To  pleasurable  impulses,  immured 
Within  the  prison  of  itself,  the  will 
Of  changeless  nature  would  be  unfulfiU'd. 
Learn  to  make  others  happy.     Spirit,  come ! 
This  is  thine  high  reward : — the  past  shall  rise ; 
Thou  shalt  behold  the  present ;  I  will  teach 

The  secrets  of  the  future. 

The  Fairy  and  the  Spirit 
Approach'd  the  overhanging  battlement. — 
Below  lay  stretch'd  the  universe ! 
There,  far  as  the  remotest  line 
That  bounds  imagination's  flight, 

Countless  and  unending  orbs 
In  mazy  motion  intermingled, 
Yet  stiil  fuKill'd  innuutahly 
Eternal  Natui-u's  law. 
Above,  below,  around 
The  circling  systems  form'd 
A  wilderness  of  harmony  ; 
Each  with  undeviating  aim. 
In  eloquent  silence,  through  the  depths  of  space 
Pursued  its  wondrous  way. 

'i'herc  was  a  little  light 

That  twinkled  in  the  misty  distance: 

Norie  but  a  spirit's  eye 


Might  ken  that  rolling  orb ; 

None  but  a  spirit's  ej-c. 

And  in  no  other  place 
But  that  celestial  dwelling,  might  behold 
Each  action  of  this  earth's  inhabitants. 

But  matter,  space,  and  time. 
In  those  aerial  mansions  cease  to  act ; 
And  all-prevailing  wisdom,  when  it  reaps 
The  harvest  of  its  excellence,  o'erbounds 
Those  obstacles,  of  which  an  earthly  soul 
Fears  to  attempt  the  conquest. 

The  Fairy  pointed  to  the  earth. 
The  Spirit's  intellectual  eye 
Its  kindred  beings  recognised. 
The  thronging  thousands,  to  a  passing  riew, 
Seem'd  like  an  ant  lull's  citizens. 
How  wonderful !  that  even 
The  passions,  prejudices,  interests. 
That  sway  the  meanest  being,  the  weak  touch 
That  moves  the  finest  nerve. 
And  in  one  human  brain 
Causes  the  faintest  thought,  becomes  a  Unk 
In  the  great  chain  of  nature. 

Behold,  the  Fairy  cried. 
Palmyra's  ruin'd  palaces  ! — 

Behold  !  where  grandeur  frown 'd  ; 

Behold  !  where  pleasure  smiled  ; 
What  now  remains  ? — the  memory 

Of  senselessness  and  shame — 

What  is  immortal  there  ? 

Nothing — it  stands  to  tell 

A  melancholy  tale,  to  give 

An  awful  warning :  soon 
Oblivion  will  steal  silently 

The  remnant  of  its  fame. 

Monarchs  and  conquerors  there 
Proud  o'er  prostrate  millions  trod — 
The  earthquakes  of  the  human  race, — 
Like  them,  forgotten  when  the  ruin 

That  marks  their  shock  is  past. 

Beside  the  eternal  Nile 

The  Pyramids  have  risen. 
Nile  shall  pursue  his  changeless  way ; 

Those  Pyramids  shall  fall; 
Yea !  not  a  stone  shall  stand  to  tell 

The  spot  whereon  they  stood ; 
Their  very  site  shall  be  forgotten, 

As  is  their  builder's  name  ! 

Behold  yon  sterile  spot, 
Where  now  the  wandering  Arab's  tent 

Flaps  in  the  desert-blast ! 
There  once  old  Salem's  haughty  fane 
Rear'd  high  to  heaven  its  thousand  golden  domes, 
And  in  the  blushing  face  of  day 
Ex.posed  its  shameful  glorj'. 
Oh  !  many  a  widow,  many  an  orphan  cursed 
The  building  of  that  fane ;  and  many  a  fulhcr. 
Worn  out  with  toil  and  slavery,  implored 
The  poor  man's  God  to  sweep  it  from  the  earth, 
And  spare  his  children  the  detested  task 
Of  piling  stone  on  stone,  and  poisoning 
The  choicest  days  of  life, 
To  soothe  a  dotard's  vanity. 
There  an  inhuman  and  uncultured  race 


QUEEN    MAB. 


21 


Hovvl'd  hideous  praises  to  their  Demon-God  ; 
They  rush'd  to  war,  tore  from  the  mother's  womb 
The  unborn  child, — ohl  age  and  infancy 
Promiscuous  perish'd  ;  their  victorious  arms 
Left  not  a  soul  to  brcatlic.    Oh  !  they  were  fiends : 
But  what  was  he  who  taught  them  that  the  God 
Of  nature  and  benevolence  had  given 
A  special  sanction  to  the  trade  of  blood  1 
His  name  and  theirs  are  foding,  and  the  talcs 
Of  this  barbarian  nation,  which  imposture 
Recites  till  teiTor  credits,  are  pursuing 
Itself  into  forgetfulness. 

Where  Athens,  Rome,  and  Sparta  stood, 
There  is  a  moral  desert  now  : 
The  mean  and  miserable  huts, 
The  yet  more  wretched  palaces. 
Contrasted  with  those  ancient  fanes, 
Now  crumbling  to  oblivion  ; 
The  long  and  lonely  colonnades 
Through  which  the  ghost  of  Freedom  stalks 

Seem  like  a  well-known  tune, 
Which,  in  some  dear  scene  we  have  loved  to  hear, 

Remembered  now  in  sadness. 

But,  oh !  how  much  more  changed 

How  gloomier  is  the  contrast 

Of  human  nature  there  ! 
Where  Socrates  expired,  a  tyrant's  slave, 
A  coward  and  a  fool,  spreads  death  around — 

Then,  shuddering,  meets  his  own. 
Where  Cicero  and  Antoninus  lived, 
A  cowl'd  and  hypocritical  monk 

Prays,  curses,  and  deceives. 

Spirit!  ten  thousand  years 
Have  scarcely  pass'd  away, 
Since,  in  the  waste  where  now  the  savage  drinks 
His  enemy's  blood,  and  aping  Europe's  sons, 
Wakes  the  unholy  song  of  war. 
Arose  a  stately  city. 
Metropolis  of  the  western  continent : 

There,  now,  the  mossy  column-stone. 
Indented  by  time's  unrelaxing  grasp. 
Which  once  appear'd  to  brave 
All,  save  its  country's  ruin ; 
There  the  wide  forest  scene. 
Rude  in  the  uncultivated  loveliness 

Of  gardens  long  run  wild. 
Seems,  to  the  unwilling  sojourner,  whose  steps 

Chance  in  that  desert  has  dclay'd. 
Thus  to  have  stood  since  earth  was  what  it  is. 

Yet  once  it  was  the  busiest  haunt. 
Whither,  as  to  a  common  centre,  flock'd 
Strangers,  and  ships,  and  merchandise : 
Once  peace  and  freedom  blest 
The  cultivated  plain : 
But  wealth,  that  curse  of  man, 
BHghtcd  the  bud  of  its  prosperity  : 
Virtue  and  wisdom,  truth  and  liberty. 
Fled  ;  to  return  not,  until  man  shall  know 
That  they  alone  can  give  the  bliss 

Worthy  a  soul  that  claims 
Its  kindred  with  eternity. 

There's  not  one  atom  of  yon  earth 

But  once  was  living  man  ; 
Nor  the  minutest  drop  of  rain 


That  hangeth  in  its  thinnest  cloud, 
But  flow'd  in  human  veins: 
And  from  the  burning  plains 
W'hcre  Lybian  monsters  yell. 
From  the  most  gloomy  glens 
Of  Greenland's  sunless  clime. 
To  where  the  golden  fields 
Of  fertile  England  spread 
Their  harvest  to  the  day. 
Thou  canst  not  find  one  .spot 
Whereon  no  cily  stood. 
How  strange  is  human  pride  ! 
I  tell  thee  that  those  living' things, 
To  whom  the  fragile  blade  of  grass, 
That  springeth  in  the  morn 
And  perisheth  ere  noon, 
Is  an  unbounded  world  ; 
I  tell  thee  that  those  viewless  beings. 
Whose  mansion  is  the  smallest  particle 
Of  the  impassive  atmosphere, 
Think,  feel,  and  live  like  man ; 
That  their  affections  and  antipathies, 
Like  his,  produce  the  laws 
Ruling  their  moral  state  ; 
And  the  minutest  throb 
That  through  their  frame  diffuses 
The  slightest,  faintest  motion. 
Is  fixed  and  indispensable 
As  the  majestic  laws 
That  rule  yon  rolling  orbs. 

The  Fairy  paused.     The  Spirit, 
In  ecstasy  of  admiration,  felt 
All  knowledge  of  the  past  revived  ;  the  events 

Of  old  and  wondrous  times. 
Which  dim  tradition  interruptedly 
Teaches  the  credulous  vulgar,  were  unfolded 
In  just  perspective  to  the  view; 
Yet  dim  from  their  inlhiitude. 
The  Spirit  seem'd  to  stand 
High  on  an  isolated  [linnacle  ; 
The  flood  of  ages  combating  below 
The  depth  of  the  unbounded  universe 
Above,  and  all  around 
Nature's  unchanging  harmony. 


III. 

Faiht  !  the  Spirit  said. 

And  on  the  Queen  of  Spells 

Fix'd  her  ethereal  eyes, 
I  thank  thee.     Thou  hast  given 
A  boon  which  I  will  not  resign,  and  taught 
A  lesson  not  to  be  unlcarn'd.     I  know 
The  past,  and  thence  I  will  essay  to  glean 
A  warning  for  the  luture,  so  that  man 
May  profit  by  his  errors,  and  derive 

Experience  from  his  folly  : 
For,  when  the  power  of  impartmg  joy 
Is  equal  to  the  will,  the  human  soul 

Requires  no  other  heaven. 

-yixn. 
Turn  thee,  surpassing  Spirit! 
Much  yet  remains  unscann'd. 
Thou  knowest  how  great  is  man. 


22 


QUEEN    MAB. 


Thou  knowcst  his  iinhecility  : 
Yet  learn  thou  what  he  is;  • 
Yet  learn  the  lofty  destiny 
Which  restless  Time  prepares 
For  every  living  soul. 

Behold  a  gortjeous  palace,  that,  amid 

Yon  populous  city,  rears  its  thousand  towers 

And  seems  itself  a  city.     Gloomy  troops 

Of  sentinels,  in  stern  and  silent  ranks, 

Encompass  it  around  ;  the  dweller  there 

Cannot  be  free  and  happy ;  hearcst  thou  not 

The  curses  of  the  fatherless,  the  groans 

Of  those  who  have  no  friend  !     He  passes  on : 

The  King,  the  wearer  of  a  gilded  chain 

That  binds  his  soul  to  abjectness,  the  fool 

Whom  courtiers  nickname  monarch,  whilst  a  slave 

Even  to  the  basest  appetites — that  man 

Heeds  not  the  shriek  of  penury  ;  he  smiles 

At  the  deep  curses  which  the  destitute 

Mutter  in  secret,  and  a  sullen  joy 

Pervades  his  bloodless  heart  when  thousands  groan 

But  for  those  morsels  which  his  wantonness 

Wastes  in  unjoyous  revelry,  to  save 

All  that  they  love  from  famine:  when  he  hears 

The  tale  of  horror,  to  some  ready-made  face 

Of  hypocritical  assent  he  turns, 

Smothering  the  glow  of  shame,  that,  spite  of  him, 

Flushes  his  bloated  cheek. 

Now  to  the  meal 
Of  silence,  grandeur,  and  excess,  he  drags 
His  palled  unwilling  appetite.     If  gold. 
Gleaming  around,  and  numerous  viands  culled 
From  every  clime,  could  force  the  loathing  sense 
To  overcome  satiety, —  if  wealth 
The  spring  it  draws  from  poisons  not, — or  vice, 
Unfeeling,  stubborn  vice,  convcrteth  not 
Its  food  to  deadliest  venom ;  then  that  king 
Is  happy ;  and  the  peasant  who  fulfils 
His  unforced  task,  when  he  returns  at  even, 
And  by  the  blazing  fagot  meets  again 
Her  welcome  for  whom  all  his  toil  is  sped, 
Tastes  not  a  sweeter  meal. 

Behold  him  now 
Stretched  on  the  gorgeous  couch;  his  fevered  brain 
Keels  dizzily  awhile  :  but  ah  !  too  soon 
The  slumber  of  intemperance  subsides, 
And  conscience,  that  undying  serpent,  calls 
Her  venomous  brood  to  their  nocturnal  task, 
liisten  !  he  speaks !  oh  !  mark  that  frenzied  eye — 
Oh !  mark  that  deadly  visage. 


No  cessation ! 
Oh  !  must  this  last  for  ever  1     Awful  death, 
I  wish  yet  fear  to  clasp  thee  !     Not  one  moment 
Of  dreamless  sleep  !     O  dear  and  blessed  peace  ! 
Why  dost  thou  shroud  thy  vestal  purity 
In  i)en>iry  and  dungeons  I  wherefore  lurkcst 
Willi  danger,  death,  and  solitude:  yet  shunn'st 
The  palace  I  have  built  thcc  !      Sacred  peace ! 
Oh  visit  me  but  once,  and  pitying  shed 
One  drop  of  balm  upon  my  withered  soul. 

Vain  man !  that  palace  is  the  virtuous  heart. 
And  peace  defileth  not  her  snowy  robes 


In  such  a  shed  as  thine.     Hark  !  yet  he  mutters ; 

His  slumbers  are  but  varied  agonies, 

They  prey  like  scorpions  on  the  springs  of  life. 

There  needelh  not  the  hell  that  bigots  frame 

To  punish  those  who  err :  earth  in  itself 

Contains  at  once  the  evil  and  the  cure ; 

And  all-suiFicing  nature  can  chastise 

Those  who  transgress  her  law, — she  only  knows 

How  justly  to  proportion  to  the  fault 

The  punishment  it  merits. 

Is  it  strange 
That  this  poor  wretch  should  pride  him  in  his  wol 
Take  pleasure  in  his  abjectness,  and  hug 
The  scorpion  that  consumes  him  1     Is  it  strange 
That,  placed  on  a  conspicuous  throne  of  thorns, 
Grasping  an  iron  sceptre,  and  immured 
Within  a  splendid  prison,  whose  stern  bounds 
Shut  him  from  all  that's  good  or  dear  on  earth, 
His  soul  asserts  not  its  humanity  1 
That  man's  mild  nature  rises  not  in  war 
Against  a  king's  employ  1     No — 'tis  not  strange  ! 
He,  like  the  vulgar,  thinks,  feels,  acts  and  lives 
Just  as  his  father  did  ;  the  unconquered  powers 
Of  precedent  and  custom  interpose 
Between  a  king  and  virtue.     Stranger  yet, 
To  those  who  know  not  nature,  nor  deduce 
The  future  from  the  present,  it  may  seem, 
That  not  one  slave,  who  supers  from  the  crimes 
Of  this  vmnatural  being;  not  one  wretch. 
Whose  children  famish,  and  whose  nuptial  bed 
Is  earth's  unpitying  bosom,  rears  an  arm 
To  dash  him  from  his  throne  ! 

Those  gilded  flies 
That,  basking  in  the  sunshine  of  a  court, 
Fatten  on  its  corruption  I — what  are  they  1 
— The  drones  of  the  community  ;  they  feed 
On  the  mechanic's  labour ;  the  starved  hind 
For  them  compels  the  stubborn  glebe  to  yield 
Its  unshared  harvests ;  and  yon  squalid  Ibrm, 
Leaner  than  fleshless  misery,  that  wastes 
A  sunless  life  in  the  unwholesome  mine, 
Drags  out  in  labour  a  protracted  death. 
To  glut  their  grandeur ;  many  faint  with  toil, 
That  few  may  know  the  cares  and  wo  of  sloth. 
Whence,  think'st  thou,  kings  and  parasites  arose? 
Whence  that  unnatural  line  of  drones,  who  heap 
Toil  and  unvanquishable  penury 
On  those  who  build  their  palaces,  and  bring  [vice; 
Their  daily  bread  ] — From  vice,  black,  loathsome 
From  rapine,  madness,  treachery,  and  wrong; 
From  all  that  genders  misery,  and  makes 
Of  earth  this  thorny  wilderness;  from  lust. 
Revenge,  and  murder. — And  when  reason's  voice. 
Loud  as  the  voice  of  nature,  shall  have  waked 
The  nations;  and  mankind  perceive  that  vice 
Is  discord,  war,  and  misery  ;  that  virtue 
Is  peace,  and  hapi)iness,  and  harmony ; 
When  man's  maturer  nature  shall  disdain 
The  playthings  of  its  childhood ; — kingly  glare 
Will  lose  its  j)ower  to  dazzle;  its  authority 
Will  silently  j)ass  by ;  the  gorgeous  throne 
Shall  stand  unnoticed  in  the  regal  hall, 
J'ast  falling  to  decay  ;  whilst  falsehood's  trade 
Shall  be  as  hatci'ul  and  unprofitable 
As  that  of  truth  is  now. 


QUEEN    MAB. 


23 


^^■llore  is  the  fame 
Wliich  the  vain-glorious  miLjIity  of  tlic  earth 
Seek  to  eternize  ?     Oh  !  the  faintest  sound 
Ymm  time's  light  foot-fall,  the  minutest  wave 
That  swells  the  flood  of  ages,  whelms  in  nothing 
The  unsubstantial  bubble.     Ay  !  to-day 
Stern  is  the  tyrant's  mandate,  red  the  gaze 
That  flashes  desolation,  strong  the  arm 
That  seatters  multitudes.     To-morrow  comes ! 
That  mandate  is  a  thunder-peal  that  died 
In  ages  past ;  that  gaze,  a  transient  flash 
On  whieh  the  midnight  closed,  and  on  that  arm 
The  worm  has  made  his  meal. 

The  virtuous  man 
Who,  great  in  his  humility,  as  kings 
Are  little  in  their  grandeur;  he  who  leads 
Invincibly  a  life  of  resolute  good. 
And  stands  amid  the  silent  dungeon-depths 
More  free  and  fearless  than  the  trembling  judge, 
Who.  clothed  in  venal  power,  vainly  strove 
To  bind  the  impassive  spirit ; — when  he  falls, 
His  mild  eye  beams  benevolence  no  more  : 
Wither'd  the  hand  outstretch'd  but  to  relieve ; 
Sunk  reason's  simple  eloquence,  that  roll'd 
But  to  appal  the  guilty.     Yes!  the  grave       [frost 
Hath    (juench"d  that  eye,  and    death's   relentless 
Wither'd  that  arm  :  but  the  unfading  fame 
Which  virtue  hangs  upon  its  votary's  tomb ; 
The  deathless  memory  of  that  man,  whom  kings 
Call  to  their  mind  and  tremlile ;  the  remembrance 
With  wliich  the  happy  spirit  contemplates 
Its  well-spent  pilgrimage  on  earth, 
Shall  never  pass  away. 

Nature  rejects  the  monarch,  not  the  man ; 
The  subject,  not  the  citizen  :  for  kings 
And  subjects,  mutual  foes,  for  ever  play 
A  losing  game  into  each  other's  hands, 
Whose  stakes  are  vice  and  misery.     The  man 
Of  virtuous  soul  commands  not,  nor  obeys. 
Power,  like  a  desolating  pestilence, 
Pollutes  whate'er  it  touches;  and  obedience, 
Bane  of  all  genius,  virtue,  freedom,  truth, 
Makes  slaves  of  men,  and  of  the  human  frame 
A  mechanized  automaton. 

When  Nero, 
High  over  flaming  Rome,  with  savage  joy 
Lower'd  like  a  fiend,  drank  with  enraptured  ear 
The  shrieks  of  agonizing  death,  beheld 
The  frightful  desolation  spread,  and  felt 
A  new-created  sense  within  his  soul 
Thrill  to  the  sight,  and  vibrate  to  the  sound ; 
Thinkest  thou  his  grandeur  had  not  overcome 
The  force  of  human  kindness  ]   and,  when  Rome, 
With  one  stern  blow,  hurl'd  not  the  tyrant  down, 
Crush'd  not  the  arm,  red  with  her  dearest  blood, 
Had  not  submissive  abjectness  destroy'd 
Nature's  suggestions  1 

Look  on  yonder  earth : 
The  golden  harvests  spring ;  the  unfailing  sun 
Sheds  light  and  life ;  the  fruits,  the  flowers,  the 
Arise  in  due  succession  ;  all  things  speak      [trees, 
Peace,  harmony,  and  love.     The  universe, 
In  nature's  silent  eloquence,  declares 
That  all  fulfil  the  works  of  love  and  joy, — 


All  but  the  outcast,  Man.     He  fabricates 
The  sword  which  stabs  his  peace ;  he  chcrisheth 
The  snakes  that  gnaw  his  heart;  he  raiseth  up 
The  tyrant,  whose  delight  is  in  his  wo, 
Whose  sport  is  in  his  agony.     Yon  sun. 
Lights  it  the  great  alone  1     Yon  silver  beams, 
Sleep  they  less  sweetly  on  the  cott.age  tiiatch. 
Than  on  the  dome  of  kings  1     Is  mother  earth 
A  step-dame  to  her  numerous  sons,  who  earn 
Her  unshared  gifts  with  unremitting  toil; 
A  mother  only  to  those  j)uhng  babes 
Who,  nursed  in  ease  and  luxury,  make  men 
The  playthings  of  their  babyhood,  and  mar, 
In  self-important  childishness,  that  peace 
Which  men  alone  appreciate  ] 

Spirit  of  Nature  !  no ! 
The  pure  dilfusion  of  thy  essence  throbs 
Alike  in  every  human  heart. 

Thou,  aye,  erectest  there 
Thy  throne  of  power  unappealable  : 
Thou  art  the  judge  beneath  whose  nod 
Man's  brief  and  frail  authority 

Is  powerless  as  the  wind 

That  passeth  idly  by. 
Thine  the  tribunal  which  surpasseth 
The  show  of  human  justice. 

As  God  surpasses  man. 

Spirit  of  Nature  !  thou, 
Life  of  interminable  multitudes; 
Soul  of  those  mighty  spheres 
Whose  changeless  paths  through  Heaven's  deep 
Soul  of  that  smallest  being,  [silence  lie  ; 

The  dwelling  of  whose  life 
Is  one  feint  April  sun-gleam  ; — 
Man,  like  these  passive  things. 
Thy  will  unconsciously  fulfilleth : 
Like  theirs,  his  age  of  endless  peace. 
Which  time  is  fast  maturing, 
W^ill  swiftly,  surely  come  ; 
And  the  unbounded  frame,  wliich  thou  pervadest, 
Will  be  without  a  flaw. 
Marring  its  perfect  symmetry. 


IV. 

How  beautiful  this  night !  the  balmiest  sigh 
Which  vernal  zephyrs  breathe  in  evening's  ear. 
Were  discord  to  the  speaking  quietude 
That  wraps  this  moveless  scene.     Heaven's  ebon 
Studded  with  stars  unutterably  bright,  [vault. 

Through  which  the  moon's  unclouded  grandeur 
Seems  like  a  canopy  which  love  has  spread   [rolls. 
To  curtain  her  sleeping  world.     Yon  gentle  hills. 
Robed  in  a  garment  of  untrodden  snow ; 
Yon  darksome  rocks,  whence  icicles  depend, 
So  stainless  that  their  white  and  glittering  spires 
Tinge  not  the  moon's  pure  beam ;  yon  castled  steep, 
Whose  banner  hangeth  o'er  the  time-worn  tower 
So  idly,  that  rapt  fancy  dcemeth  it 
A  metaphor  of  peace ; — all  form  a  scene 
Where  musing  solitude  might  love  to  lift 
Her  soul  above  this  sphere  of  earthliness ; 
Where  silence  undisturb'd  might  watch  alone. 
So  cold,  so  bright,  so  still. 


24 


QUEEN    MAB. 


The  orb  of  day, 
In  southern  climes,  o'er  ocean's  wavelcss  field 
Sinks  sweetly  smiling:  not  the  faintest  breath 
Steals  o'er  the  unruffled  deep;  the  clouds  of  eve 
Reflect  unmoved  the  lingering  beam  of  day ; 
And  vesper's  image  on  the  western  main 
Is  beautifully  still.     To-morrow  comes: 
Cloud  upon  cloud,  in  dark  and  deepening  mass, 
Roll  o'er  the  blacken'd  waters;  the  deep  roar 
Of  distant  thunder  mutters  awfully; 
Tempest  unfolds  its  pinion  o'er  the  gloom 
That  shrouds  the  boiling  surge;  the  pitiless  fiend, 
With  all  his  winds  and  lightnings,  tracks  his  prey; 
Tiie  torn  deep  yawns, — ^the  vessel  finds  a  grave 
Beneath  its  jagged  gulf. 

Ah!  whence  j'on  glare 
That  fires  the  arch  of  heaven ! — that  dark  red  smoke 
Blotting  the  silver  moon]    The  stars  are  quenched 
In  darkness,  and  the  pure  and  spangling  snow 
Gleams  faintly  through  the   gloom   that    gathers 

round. 
Hark  to  that  roar,  whose  s\vift  and  deafening  peals 
In  countless  echoes  through  the  mountains  ring, 
Startling  pale  midnight  on  her  starry  throne ! 
Now  swells  the  intermingling  din ;  the  jar 
Frequent  and  frightful  of  the  bursting  bomb; 
The  falling  beam,  the  shriek,  the  groan,  the  shout. 
The  ceaseless  clangour,  and  the  rush  of  men 
Inebriate  with  rage : — loud,  and  more  loud 
The  discord  grows;  till  pale  death  shuts  the  scene. 
And  o'er  the  conqueror  and  the  conqucr'd  draws 
His  cold  and  bloody  shroud. — Of  all  the  men 
Whom  day's  departing  beam  saw  blooming  there 
In  proud  and  vigorous  health;  of  all  the  hearts 
That  beat  with  anxious  life  at  sun-set  there ; 
How  few  survive,  how  few  are  beating  now ! 
All  is  deep  silence,  like  the  fearful  calm 
That  slumbers  in  the  storm's  portentous  pause; 
Save  when  the  fi'antic  wail  of  widowed  love 
Comes  shuddering  on  the  blast,  or  the  faint  moan 
With  which  some  soul  bursts  from  the  frame  of  clay 
Wrapt  round  its  struggling  powers. 

The  gray  morn 
Dawns  on  the  mouniful  scene;  the  sulphurous 
Before  the  icy  wind  slow  rolls  away,  [smoke 

And  the  bright  beams  of  frosty  morning  dance 
Along  the  spangling  snow.    There  tracks  of  blood 
Even  to  the  forest's  depth,  and  scattered  arms, 
And  lifeless  warriors,  whose  hard  lineaments 
Death's  self  could  change  not,  mark  the  dreadful 
Of  the  outsallying  victors:  far  behind,  [path 

Black  ashes  note  where  their  proud  city  stood. 
Witliin  yon  forest  is  a  gloomy  glen — 
Each  tree  which  guards  its  darkness  from  the  day. 
Waves  o'er  a  warrior's  tomb. 

I  see  thee  shrink, 
Surpassing  spirit! — wert  thou  human  else? 
I  see  a  shade  of  doubt  and  horror  fleet 
Across  thy  stainless  features:  yet  fear  not 
This  is  no  unconnected  misery. 
Nor  stands  uncaused,  and  irretrievable. 
Man's  evil  nature,  that  apology  [set  up 

Which  kings  who  rule,  and  cowards  who  crouch. 
For  their  unnumbered  crimes,  sheds  not  the  blood 


Which  desolates  the  discord-wasted  land. 
From  kings,  and  priests,  and  statesmen,  war  arose. 
Whose  safety  is  man's  deep  unbettered  wo, 
Whose  grandeur  his  debasement.     Let  the  axe 
Strike  at  the  root,  the  poison  tree  will  fall ; 
And  where  its  venomed  exhalations  spread 
Ruin,  and  death,  and  wo,  where  millions  lay 
Quenching  the  serpent's  famine,  and  their  bones 
Bleaching  unburied  in  the  putrid  blast, 
A  garden  shall  arise,  in  loveliness 
Surpassing  fabled  Eden. 

Hath  Nature's  soul. 
That  formed  this  world  so  beautiful,  that  spread 
Earth's  lap  with  plenty,  and  lil(>'s  smallest  chord. 
Strung  to  unchanging  unison,  that  gave 
The  happy  birds  their  dwelling  in  the  grove, 
That  yielded  to  the  wanderers  of  the  deep 
The  lovely  silence  of  the  unfiithomed  main. 
And  filled  the  meanest  worm  that  crawls  in  dust 
With  spirit,  thought,  and  love ;  on  Man  alone 
Partial  in  causeless  malice,  wantonly 
Heap'd  ruin,  vice,  and  slavery;  his  soul 
Blasted  with  withering  curses;  jdaced  afar 
The  meteor  happiness,  that  shuns  his  grasp, 
But  ser^'ing  on  the  frightful  gulf  to  glare, 
Rent  wide  beneath  his  footsteps  1 

Nature ! — no ! 
Kings,   priests,  and  statesmen  blast  the  human 

flower. 
Even  in  its  tender  bud ;  their  influence  darts 
Like  subtle  poison  through  the  bloodless  veins 
Of  desolate  society.     The  child, 
Ere  he  can  lisp  his  mother's  sacred  name, 
Swells  with  the  unnatural  pride  of  crime,  and  lifts 
His  baby-sword  even  in  a  hero's  mood. 
This  infant  arm  becomes  the  bloodiest  scourge 
Of  devastated  earth;  whilst  specious  names 
Learnt  in  soft  childhood's  unsuspecting  hour, 
Serve  as  the  sophisms  with  which  manhood  dims 
Bright  reason's  ray,  and  sanctifies  the  sword 
Upraised  to  shed  a  brother's  innocent  blood. 
liCt  priest-led  slaves  cease  to  proclaim  that  man 
Inherits  vice  and  misery,  when  force 
And  falsehood  hang  even  o.'er  the  cradled  babe. 
Stifling  with  rudest  grasp  all  natural  good. 

Ah !  to  the  stranger-soul,  when  first  it  peeps 
From  its  new  tenement,  and  looks  abroad 
For  happiness  and  symjiathy,  how  stern 
And  desolate  a  tract  is  this  wide  world ! 
How  withered  all  the  buds  of  natural  good ! 
No  shade,  no  shelter  from  the  sweeping  storms 
Of  pitiless  power  !     On  its  wretched  frame, 
Poisoned,  perchance,  by  the  disease  and  wo 
Heaped  on  the  wretched  parent,  whence  it  sprung. 
By  morals,  law,  and  custom,  the  pure  winds 
Of  heaven,  that  renovate  the  insect  tribes, 
M.ay  breathe  not.     The  untainting  light  of  day 
May  visit  not  its  longings.     It  is  bound 
Ere  it  has  life:  yea,  all  the  chains  are  forged 
Long  ere  its  being :  all  liberty  and  love 
And  peace  is  torn  from  its  defcncelessness ; 
Cursed  from  its  birth,  even  from  its  cradle  doomed 
To  ahjectness  and  bondage  ! 

Throughout  this  varied  and  eternal  world 


QUEEN    MAB. 


25 


Soul  is  the  only  clement,  the  block 

That  for  uncounted  ages  has  remained. 

The  moveless  pillar  of  a  mountain's  weight 

Is  active  living  spirit.     Every  grain 

Is  sentient  both  in  unity  and  part, 

And  the  minutest  atom  comprehends 

A  world  of  loves  and  hatreds ;  these  beget 

Evil  and  good:  hence  truth  and  falsehood  spring; 

Hence  will,  and  thought,  and  action,  all  tlie  germs 

Of  pain  or  pleasure,  sympathy  or  hate, 

That  variegate  the  eternal  universe. 

Soul  is  not  more  polluted  than  the  beams 

Of  heaven's  pure  orb,  ere  round  their  rapid  lines 

The  taint  of  earth-born  atmospheres  arise. 

Man  is  of  soul  and  body,  formed  for  deeds 

Of  high  resolve  ;  on  fancy's  boldest  wing 

To  soar  unwearied,  fearlessly  to  turn 

The  keenest  pangs  to  peaccfulness,  and  taste 

The  joys  which  mingled  sense  and  spirit  yield. 

Or  he  is  formed  for  abjcctness  and  wo, 

To  grovel  on  the  dunghill  of  his  fears, 

To  shrink  at  every  sound,  to  quench  the  flame 

Of  natural  love  in  sensualism,  to  know 

That  hour  as  blest  when  on  his  worthless  days 

The  frozen  hand  of  death  shall  set  its  seal, 

Yet  fear  the  cure,  though  hating  the  disease. 

The  one  is  man  that  shall  hereafter  be ; 

The  other,  man  as  vice  has  made  him  now. 

War  is  the  statesman's  game,  the  priest's  delight, 
The  lawj'er's  jest,  the  hired  assassin's  trade. 
And,  to  those  royal  murderers,  whose  mean  thrones 
Are  bought  by  crimes  of  trc.achery  and  gore, 
The  bread  they  eat,  the  statf  on  which  they  lean. 
Guards,  garbed  in  blood-red  liveiy,  surround 
Their  palaces,  participate  the  crimes 
That  force  defends,  and  from  a  nation's  rage  • 
Secure  the  crown,  which  all  the  curses  reach 
That  famine,  frenzy,  wo  and  penury  breathe. 
These  are  the  hired  bravoes  who  defend 
The  tyrant's  throne — the  bullies  of  his  fear : 
These  are  the  sinks  and  channels  of  worst  vice, 
The  refuge  of  society,  the  dregs 
Of  all  tffat  is  most  vile  :  their  cold  hearts  blend 
Deceit  with  sternness,  ignorance  with  pride, 
All  that  is  mean  and  villanous,  with  rage 
Which  hopelessness  of  good,  and  self-contempt, 
.  Alone  might  kindle ;  they  are  decked  in  wealth, 
Honour  and  power,  then  are  sent  abroad 
To  do  their  work.     The  pestilence  that  stalks 
In  gloomy  triumph  through  some  Eastern  land 
Is  less  destroying.     They  cajole  with  gold, 
And  promises  of  fame,  the  thoughtless  youth 
Already  crushed  with  servitude :  he  knows 
His  wretchedness  too  late,  and  cherishes 
Repentance  for  his  ruin,  when  his  doom 
Is  sealed  in  gold  and  blood ! 
Those  too  the  tyrant  serve,  who  skilled  to  snare 
The  feet  of  justice  in  the  toils  of  law. 
Stand,  ready  to  oppress  the  weaker  still ; 
And,  right  or  wrong,  will  vindicate  for  gold. 
Sneering  at  public  virtue,  which  beneath 
Their  pitiless  tread  lies  torn  and  trampled,  where 
Honour  sits  smiling  at  the  sale  of  truth. 

Then  grave  and  hoary -lieaded  hypocrites, 


Without  a  hope,  a  passion,  or  a  love, 
Who,  through  a  life  of  luxury  and  lies. 
Have  crept  by  flattery  to  the  seats  of  power, 
Sujjport  the  system  whence  their  honours  flow — 
They  have  three  words;   well  tyrants  know  their 

use. 
Well  pay  them  for  the  loan,  with  usury 
Torn   from   a  bleeding  world ! — God,   Hell    and 

Heaven. 
A  vengeful,  pitiless,  and  almighty  fiend, 
Whose  mercy  is  a  nickname  for  the  rage 
Of  tameless  tigers  hungering  for  blood. 
Hell,  a  red  gulf  of  everlasting  Are, 
Where  poisonous  and  undying  worms  prolong 
Eternal  misery  to  those  hapless  slaves 
Whose  life  has  been  a  penance  for  its  crimes. 
And  heaven,  a  meed  for  those  who  dare  belie 
Their  human  nature,  quake,  believe,  and  cringe 
Before  the  mockeries  of  earthly  power. 

These  tools  the  tyrant  tempers  to  his  work. 
Wields  in  his  wrath,  and  as  he  wills,  destroys, 
Omnipotent  in  wickedness  :  the  while 
Youth  springs,  age  moulders,  manhood'tamcly  does 
His  bidding,  bribed  by  short-lived  joys  to  lend 
Force  to  the  weakness  of  his  trembling  arm. 

They  rise,  they  fall ;  one  generation  comes 
Yielding  its  harvest  to  destruction's  scythe. 
It  fides,  another  blossoms  :  yet  behold  ! 
Red  glows  the  tyrant's  stamp-mark  on  its  bloom. 
Withering  and  cankering  deep  its  passive  prime. 
He  has  invented  lying  words  and  modes. 
Empty  and  vain  as  his  own  coreless  heart; 
Evasive  meanings,  nothings  of  much  sound, 
To  lure  the  heedless  victun  to  the  toils 
Spread  round  the  valley  of  its  paradise. 

Look  to  thyself,  priest,  conqueror,  or  prince  ! 
Whether  thy  trade  is  falsehood,  and  thy  lusts 
Deep  wallow  in  the  earnings  of  the  poor. 
With  whom  thy  master  was  : — or  thou  delight' st 
In  numbering  o'er  the  myriads  of  thy  slain. 
All  misery  weighing  nothing  in  the  scale 
Against  thy  short-lived  fame  :  or  thou  dost  load 
With  cowardice  and  crime  the  groaning  land, 
A  pomp-fed  king.     Look  to.  thy  WTetched  self ! 
Ay,  art  thou  not  the  veriest  slave  that  e'er 
Crawled  on  the  loathing  earth  ]    Are  not  thy  days 
Days  of  unsatisfying  listlessnesi^  ] 
Dost  thou  not  cry,  ere  night's  long  rack  is  o'er, 
When  will  the  morning  come  ?     Is  not  thy  j-outh 
A  vain  and  feverish  dream  of  sensualism  1 
Thy  manhood  blighted  with  Unripe  disease  ] 
Are  not  thy  views  of  unrcgretted  death 
Drear,  comfortless,  and  horrible  ?     Thy  mind. 
Is  it  not  morbid  as  thy  nerveless  frame. 
Incapable  of  judgment,  hope,  or  love  1 
And  dost  thou  wish  the  errors  to  survive 
That  bar  thee  from  all  sympathies  of  good, 
After  the  miserable  interest 

Thou  hold'st  in  their  protraction  ?  When  the  grave 
Has  swallowed  up  thy  memory  and  thyself. 
Dost  thou  desire  the  bane  that  j)oisons  earth 
To  twine  its  roots  around  thy  coifincd  clay. 
Spring  from  thy  bones,  and  blossom  on  thy  tx)mb, 
That  of  its  fruit  thy  babes  may  eat  and  die  ? 


26 


QUEEN    MAB. 


V. 

Tiirs  do  the  poncrations  of  the  earth 

Go  to  the  pravc,  and  issue  from  the  womb, 

Surviving-  still  the  imperishable  chancre 

That  renovates  the  world  ;  even  as  the  leaves 

Which  the  keen  frost-wind  of  the  waning  year 

Has  scattered  on  the  forest  soil,  and  heaped 

For  many  seasons  there,  though  long  they  choke 

Loading  with  loathsome  rottenness  the  land. 

All  germs  of  promise.     Yet  when  the  tall  trees 

From  which  they  fell,  shorn  of  their  lovely  shapes, 

Lie  level  with  the  earth  to  moulder  there, 

ThejT  fertilize  the  land  they  long  deformed, 

Till  from  tlie  breathing  lawn  a  forest  springs 

Of  j-outh,  integrity,  and  loveliness, 

Like  that  which  gave  it  life,  to  spring  and  die. 

Thus  suicidal  selfishness,  that  blights 

The  fairest  feelings  of  the  opening-  heart. 

Is  destined  to  decay,  whilst  from  the  soil 

Shall  sj)ring  all  virtue,  all  delight,  all  love, 

And  judgment  cease  to  wage  unnatural  war 

With  passion's  unsubduable  array. 

Twin-sister  of  religion,  selfishness ! 

Rival  in  crime  and  falsehood,  aping  all 

The  wanton  horrors  of  her  bloody  play ; 

Yet  frozen,  unimpassioned,  spiritless, 

Shunning  the  light,  and  owning  not  its  name : 

Compelled,  by  its  deformitj-,  to  screen 

With  flimsy  veil  of  justice  and  of  right, 

Its  unattractive  lineaments,  that  scare 

All,  save  the  brood  of  ignorance :  at  once 

The  cause  and  the  effect  of  tyranny  ; 

Unblushing,  hardened,  sensual,  and  vile ; 

Dead  to  all  love  but  of  its  abjectness. 

With  heart  impassive  by  more  noble  powers 

Than  unshared  pleasure,  sordid  gain,  or  fame ; 

Despising  its  own  miserable  being, 

Which  still  it  longs,  yet  fears,  to  disenthrall. 

Hence  commerce  springs,  the  venal  interchange 

Of  all  that  human  art  or  nature  yield; 

Which   wealth    should    purchase    not,   but  want 

And  natural  kindness  hasten  to  supply    [demand, 

From  the  full  fountain  of  its  boundless  love, 

For  ever  stifled,  drained,  and  tainted  now. 

Commerce  !  beneath  whose  poison-breathing  shade 

No  solitary  virtue  dares  to  spring; 

But  poverty  and  wealth  with  equal  liand 

Scatter  their  withering  curses,  and  unfold 

The  doors  of  premature  and  \'iolent  death. 

To  pining  famine  and  full-fed  disease. 

To  all  that  shares  the  lot  of  human  life,       [chain 

W^hich  poisoned  body  and  soul,  scarce  drags  the 

That  lengthens  as  it  goes  and  clanks  behind. 

Commerce  has  set  the  mark  of  selfishness, 

The  signet  of  its  all-enslaving  power. 

Upon  a  shining  ore,  and  called  it  gold  : 

Before  whose  image  bow  the  vulgar  great, 

The  vainly  rich,  the  miserable  proud. 

The  mob  of  peasants,  nobles,  jiriests,  and  kings. 

And  with  blind  feelings  reverence  the  power 

That  grinds  them  to  the  dust  of  misery. 

But  in  the  temple  of  their  hireling  hearts 

(jold  is  a  living  god,  and  rules  in  scorn 

All  earthly  things  but  virtue. 


Since  tyrants,  by  the  sale  of  human  life. 

Heap  luxuries  to  their  sensualism,  and  fame 

To  their  wide-wasting  and  insatiate  pride. 

Success  has  sanctioned  to  a  credulous  world 

The  ruin,  the  disgrgce,  the  wo  of  war. 

His  hosts  of  blind  and  unresisting  dupes 

The  despot  numbers;  from  his  cabinet 

These  i)uppets  of  his  schemes  he  moves  at  will. 

Even  as  the  slaves  by  force  or  famine  driven 

Beneath  a  vulgar  master,  to  j)erform 

A  task  of  cold  and  brutal  drudgery  ;— 

Hardened  to  hope,  insensible  to  fear. 

Scarce  living  pulleys  of  a  dead  machine, 

I\Iere  wheels  of  work  and  articles  of  trade, 

That  grace  the  proud  and  noisy  pomp  of  wealth  ! 

The  harmony  and  happiness  of  man 

Yield  to  the  wealth  of  nations ;  that  which  lifts 

His  nature  to  the  heaven  of  its  pride, 

Is  bartered  for  the  poison  of  his  soul; 

The  weight  that  drags  to  earth  his  towering  hopes. 

Blighting  all  prospect  but  of  selfish  gain, 

Withering  all  passion  but  of  slavish  fear, 

Extinguishing  all  free  and  generous  love 

Of  enterprise  and  daring,  even  the  pulse 

That  fancy  kindles  in  the  beating  heart 

To  mingle  with  sensation,  it  destroys, — 

Leaves  nothing  but  the  sordid  lust  of  self. 

The  grovelling  hope  of  interest  and  gold, 

Unqualified,  unmingled,  unredeemed 

Even  by  hypocrisy. 

And  statesmen  boast 
Of  wealth  !  The  wordy  eloquence  that  lives 
After  the  ruin  of  their  hearts,  can  gild 
The  bitter  poison  of  a  nation's  wo. 
Can  turn  the  worship  of  the  servile  mob 
To  their  corrupt  and  glaring  idol,  Fame, 
From  Yirtue,  trampled  by  its  iron  tread. 
Although  its  dazzling  pedestal  be  raised 
Amid  the  horrors  of  a  limb-stre\vn  field, 
AVith  desolated  dwellings  smoking  round. 
The  man  of  ease,  who,  by  his  warm  fireside. 
To  deeds  of  charitable  intercourse 
And  bare  fulfilment  of  the  common  laws 
Of  decency  and  prejudice,  confines 
The  struggling  nature  of  his  human  heart. 
Is  duped  by  their  cold  sophistry;  he  sheds 
A  passing  tear  perchance  upon  the  wreck 
Of  earthly  j)eace,  when  near  his  dwelling's  door 
The  frightful  waves  are  driven, — when  his  son 
Is  murdered  by  the  tyrant,  or  religion 
Drives  his  wife  raving  mad.     But  the  poor  man, 
Whose  life  is  misery,  and  fear,  and  care ; 
Whom  the  morn  wakens  but  to  fruitless  toil ; 
Who  ever  hears  his  famished  ofTspring's  scream, 
A\'hom  their  pale  mother's  uncomplaining  gaze 
For  ever  meets,  and  the  proud  rich  man's  eye 
Flashing  command,  and  the  heart  breaking  scene 
Of  thousands  like  himself;  he  little  heeds 
The  rhetoric  of  tyranny,  his  hate 
Is  (juenchless  as  his  wrongs,  he  laughs  to  scorn 
Tiie  vain  and  bitter  mockery  of  words. 
Feeling  the  horror  of  the  tyrant's  deeds, 
And  unrestrained  but  by  the  arm  of  power, 
That  knows  and  dreads  his  enmity. 


QUEEN    MAB. 


27 


The  iron  rod  of  penury  still  compels 

Her  wretched  slave  to  bow  the  knee  to  wealth, 

And  poison,  with  nnprolitahle  toil, 

A  lite  too  void  of  solace  to  conlirni 

The  very  chains  that  bind  him  to  his  doom. 

Nature,  impartial  in  munificence. 

Has  gifted  man  with  all-subduing  will : 

Matter,  with  all  its  transitory  shapes, 

liies  subjected  and  plastic  at  his  feet. 

That,  weak  from  bondage,  tremble  as  they  tread. 

How  many  a  rustic  Milton  has  passed  by, 

Stilling  the  speechless  longings  of  his  heart, 

In  unremitting  drudgeiy  and  care  ! 

How  many  a  vulgar  Cato  has  compelled 

His  energies,  no  longer  tameless  then, 

To  mould  a  pin,  or  fabricate  a  nail ! 

How  many  a  Newton,  to  whose  passive  ken 

Those  mighty  spheres  that  gem  infinity 

Were  only  specks  of  tinsel,  fixed  iti  heaven 

To  light  the  midnights  of  his  native  town ! 

Yet  every  heart  contains  perfection's  germ : 
The  wisest  of  the  sages  of  the  earth, 
That  ever  from  the  stores  of  reason  drew 
Science  and  truth,  and  virtue's  dreadless  tone, 
Were  but  a  weak  and  inexperienced  boy, 
Proud,  sensual,  unimpassioned,  unimbued 
With  pure  desire  and  universal  love, 
Compared  to  that  high  being,  of  cloudless  brain, 
Untainted  passion,  elevated  will, 
Which  death  (who  even  would  linger  long  m  awe 
Witliin  his  noble  presence,  and  beneath 
His  changeless  eye-beam,)  might  alone  subdue. 
Him,  every  slave  now  dragging  through  the  filth 
Of  some  corrupted  city  his  sad  life, 
Pining  with  famine,  swoln  with  Ivixury, 
Blunting  the  keenness  of  his  spiritual  sense 
With  narrow  schemings  and  unworthy  cares, 
Or  madly  rushing  through  all  violent  crime, 
To  move  the  deep  stagnation  of  his  soul, — 
Might  imitate  and  equal. 

But  mean  lust 
Has  bound  its  chains  so  tight  about  the  earth, 
That  all  within  it  but  the  virtuous  man 
Is  venal :  gold  or  fame  will  surely  reach 
The  price  prefixed  by  selfishness,  to  all 
But  him  of  resolute  and  unchanging  will ; 
Whom,  nor  the  plaudits  of  a  servile  crowd. 
Nor  the  vile  joys  of  tainting  luxury. 
Can  bribe  to  j'iold  his  elevated  soul 
To  tyranny  or  falsehood,  though  they  wield 
With  blood-red  hand  the  sceptre  of  the  world. 

All  things  are  sold :  the  very  light  of  heaven 

Is  venal ;  earth's  unsparing  gifts  of  love, 

The  smallest  and  most  despicable  things 

That  lurk  in  the  abysses  of  the  deep. 

All  objects  of  our  life,  even  life  itself. 

And  the  poor  pittance  which  the  laws  allow 

Of  liberty,  the  fellowship  of  man. 

Those  duties  which  his  heart  of  human  love 

Should  urge  him  to  perform  instinctively, 

Are  bought  and  sold  as  in  a  public  mart 

Of  undisguising  selfishness,  that  sets 

On  each  its  price,  the  stamp-mark  of  her  reign. 

Even  love  is  sold ;  the  solace  of  all  wo 


Is  turned  to  deadliest  agony,  old  age, 

Shivers  in  selfish  beauty's  loathing  arms, 

And  youth's  corrupted  impulses  prepare 

A  life  of  horror  from  the  blighting  banc 

Of  commerce :  whilst  the  pestilence  that  springs 

From  unenjoying  sensualism,  has  filled 

All  human  life  with  hydra-headed  woes. 

Falsehood  demands  but  gold  to  pay  the  pangs 
Of  outraged  conscience  ;  for  the  slavish  priest 
Sets  no  great  value  on  his  hireling  faith : 
A  little  passing  pomp,  some  servile  souls. 
Whom  cowardice  itself  might  safely  chain, 
Or  the  spare  mite  of  avarice  could  bribe 
To  deck  the  triumph  of  their  languid  zeal. 
Can  make  him  minister  to  tyranny. 
More  daring  crime  requires  a  loftier  meed : 
Without  a  shudder  the  slave-soldier  lends 
His  arm  to  murderous  deeds,  and  steels  his  heart, 
When  the  dread  eloquence  of  dying  men, 
Low  mingling  on  the  lonely  field  of  fame. 
Assails  that  nature  whose  applause  he  sells 
For  the  gross  blessings  of  the  patriot  mob, 
For  the  vile  gratitude  of  heartless  kings, 
And  for  a  cold  world's  good  word, — ^viler  still ! 

There  is  a  nobler  glory  which  survives 

Until  our  being  fades,  and,  solacing 

All  human  care,  accompanies  its  change  ; 

Deserts  not  virtue  in  the  dungeon's  gloom, 

And,  in  the  precincts  of  the  palace,  guides 

Its  footsteps  through  that  labyrinth  of  crime ; 

Imbues  his  lineaments  with  dauntlessness, 

Even  when,  from  power's  avenging  hand,  he  takes 

Its  sweetest,  last  and  noblest  title — death  ; 

— The  consciousness  of  good,  which  neither  gold. 

Nor  sordid  fame,  nor  hope  of  heavenly  bliss. 

Can  purchase  ;  but  a  life  of  resolute  good, 

Unalterable  will,  quenchless  desire 

Of  universal  happiness,  the  heart 

That  beats  with  it  in  unison,  the  brain, 

Whose  ever-wakeful  wisdom  toils  to  change 

Reason's  rich  stores  for  its  eternal  weal. 

This  commerce  of  sincerest  virtue  needs 
No  mediative  signs  of  selfishness. 
No  jealous  intercourse  of  wretched  gain. 
No  balancings  of  prudence,  cold  and  long ; 
In  just  and  equal  measure  all  is  weighed, 
One  scale  contains  the  sum  of  human  weal. 
And  one,  the  good  man's  heait. 

How  vainly  seek 
The  selfish  for  that  happiness  denied 
To  aught  but  virtue  !   Blind  and  hardened,  they 
Who  hope  for  peace  amid  the  storms  of  care. 
Who  covet  power  they  know  not  how  to  use, 
And  sigh  for  pleasure  they  refuse  to  give : — 
Madly  they  frustrate  still  their  own  designs ; 
And,  where  they  hoped  that  quiet  to  enjoy 
Which  virtue  pictures,  bitterness  of  soul, 
Pining  regrets,  and  vain  repentances. 
Disease,  disgust,  and  lassitude,  pervade 
Their  valueless  and  miserable  lives. 

But  hoary-headed  selfishness  has  felt 

Its  death-blow,  and  is  tottering  to  the  grave : 

A  brighter  morn  awaits  the  human  day, 


23 


QUEEN    MAB. 


When  every  transfer  of  earth's  natural  gifts 
Sliall  be  a  commerce. of  good  words  and  works; 
When  poverty  and  wealth,  the  thirst  of  fame, 
Tlic  fear  of  infamy,  disease,  and  wo, 
War  with  its  million  horrors,  and  fierce  hell, 
Shall  live  but  in  the  memory  of  time, 
M'lio,  like  a  penitent  libertine  shall  start, 
Look  back,  and  shudder  at  his  younger  years. 


VI. 

All  touch,  all  eye,  all  ear, 
The  Spirit  felt  the  Fairy's  burning  speech. 

O'er  the  thin  texture  of  its  frame. 
The  varying  periods  painted,  changing  glows ; 

As  on  a  summer  even. 
When  soul-enfolding  music  floats  around, 
The  stainless  mirror  of  the  lake 
Re-images  the  eastern  gloom, 
MingUng  convulsively  its  purple  hues 
With  sunset's  burnished  gold. 

Then  thus  the  Spirit  spoke  : 
It  is  a  wild  and  miserable  world  ! 

Thorny  and  full  of  care. 
Which  every  fiend  can  make  his  prey  at  will. 
O  Fair}- !  in  the  lapse  of  years. 
Is  there  no  hope  in  store  1 
Will  yon  vast  suns  roll  on 
Interminally,  still  illuming 
The  night  of  so  many  wretched  souls, 
And  see  no  hope  for  them  ? 
Will  not  the  universal  Spirit  e'er 
Revivify  this  withered  limb  of  Heaven  1 

The  Fairy  calmly  smiled 
In  comfort,  and  a  kindling  gleam  of  hope 

Suffused  the  Spirit's  lineaments. 
Oh !  rest  thee  tranquil ;  chase  those  fearful  doubts, 
Which  ric'er  could  rack  an  everlasting  soul. 
That  sees  the  chains  which  bind  it  to  its  doom. 
Yes !  crime  and  misery  arc  in  yonder  earth, 

Falsehood,  mistake,  and  lust; 

But  the  eternal  world 
Contains  at  once  the  evil  and  the  cure. 
Some  eminent  in  virtue  shall  start  up, 

Even  in  perverscst  time  : 
The  truths  of  their  pure  lips,  that  never  die. 
Shall  bind  the  scorpion  falsehood  with  a  wreath 

Of  ever-living  flame, 
Until  the  monster  sting  itself  to  death. 

How  sweet  a  scene  will  earth  become ! 
Of  purest  spirits,  a  pure  dwelling-place, 
Symphonious  with  the  planetary  spheres ; 
When  man,  with  changeless  nature  coalescing. 
Will  undertake  regeneration's  work. 
When  its  ungenial  poles  no  longer  point 
To  the  red  and  baleful  sun 
That  faintly  twinkles  there.  , 

Spirit,  on  yonder  earth. 
Falsehood  now  triumphs;  deadly  power 
Has  fixed  its  seal  upon  the  lip  of  truth ! 

Madness  and  misery  are  there  ! 
The  happiest  is  most  wretched !  Yet  confide 


Until  pure  health-drops,  from  the  cup  of  joy 
Fall  like  a  dew  of  balm  upon  the  world. 
Now,  to  the  scene  I  show,  in  silence  turn. 
And  read  the  blood-stained  charter  of  all  wo, 
Which  nature  soon,  with  re-creating  hand, 
\'V'ill  lilot  in  mercy  from  the  book  of  earth. 
How  bold  the  flight  of  passion's  wandering  wing. 
How  swift  the  step  of  reason's  firmer  tread. 
How  calm  and  sweet  the  victories  of  life,. 
How  terrorless  the  triumph  of  the  grave ! 
How  powerless  were  the  mightiest  monarch's  ann, 
Vain  his  loud  threat,  and  hnpotcnt  his  frown  ! 
How  ludicrous  the  priest's  dogmatic  roar ! 
The  weight  of  his  exterminating  curse 
How  light !  and  his  affected  charity. 
To  suit  the  pressure  of  the  changing  times,. 
What  palpable  deceit ! — but  for  thy  aid, 
Religion  !  but  for  thee,  prolific  fiend, 
Who  peoplest  earth  with  demons,  hell  with  men. 
And  heaven  with  slaves  ! 

Thou  faintest  all  thou,  look'st  upon  ! — the  stars, 
Which  on  thy  cradle  beamed  so  brightly  sweet, 
Were  gods  to  the  distempered  playfulness 
Of  thy  untutored  infancy  :  the  trees. 
The  grass,  the  clouds,  the  mountains,  and  the  sea. 
All  living  things  that  walk,  swim,  creep,  or  fly. 
Were  gods :  the  sun  had  homage,  and  the  moon 
Her  worshipper.     Then  thou  becamest  a  boy, 
More  daring  in  thy  frenzies :  every  shape, 
Monstrous  or  vast,  or  beautifully  wild. 
Which  from  sensation's  relics,  fancy  culls; 
The  spirits  of  the  air,  the  shuddering  ghost, 
The  genii  of  the  elements,  the  powers, 
That  give  a  shape  to  nature's  varied  works. 
Had  lii'c  and  place  in  the  corru{)t  belief 
Of  thy  blind  lieart :  yet  still  tliy  youthful  hands 
Were  pure  of  human  blood.    Then  manhood  gave 
Its  strength  and  ardour  to  thy  frienzicd  brain ; 
Thine  eager  gaze  scanned  the  stupendous  scene. 
Whose  wonders  mocked  the  knowledge  of  thy  pride : 
Their  everlasting  and  unchanging  laws 
Rcproach'd  thine  ignorance.  Awhile  thou  stoodst 
Baffled  and  gloomy  ;  then  thou  didst  sum  up 
The  elements  of  all  that  thou  didst  know ; 
The  changing  seasons,  winter's  leafless  reign, 
The  budding  of  the  heaven-breathing  trees. 
The  eternal  orbs  that  beautify  the  night. 
The  sunrise,  and  the  setting  of  the  moon, 
Earthquakes  and  wars,  and  poisons  and  disease. 
And  all  their  causes,  to  an  abstract  jioint 
Converging,  thou  didst  bend,  and  call'd  it  God ! 
The  self-sufficing,  the  omnipotent, 
The  merciful,  and  the  avenging  (!od  ! 
Who,  prototype  of  human  misrule,  sits 
High  in  heaven's  realm,  upon  a  golden  throne. 
Even  like  an  earthly  king;  and  whose  dread  work, 
Hell,  gapes  for  ever  for  the  unhappy  slaves 
Of  fate,  whom  he  created  in  his  sport, 
To  triumj)!!  in  their  torments  when  they  foil ! 
Earth  heard  the  name ;  earth  trembled,  as  the  smoke 
Of  his  revenge  ascended  up  to  heaven. 
Blotting  the  constellations ;  and  the  cries 
Of  millions  butcher'd  in  sweet  confidence 
And  unsuspecting  peace,  even  when  the  bonds 


QUEEN    MAB. 


29 


Of  safety  wore  confinnrd  by  wordy  oaths 
Sworn  in  his  dreadful  name,  runt;  tliroush  the  land; 
M'hilst  innocent  babes  writhed  on  thy  stubborn 

spear, 
And  thou  didst  laugh  to  hear  the  mother's  shriek 
Of  maniac  gladness  as  the  sacred  steel 
Felt  cold  in  her  torn  entrails ! 
Religion  !  thou  wert  then  in  maidrood's  prime  : 
But  age  crept  on:  one  God  would  not  sulilcc 
For  senile  puerility ;  thou  framcdst 
A  talc  to  suit  tliy  dotage,  and  to  glut 
Thy  misery-thirsting  soul,  that  the  mad  fiend 
Thy  wickedness  had  pictured,  might  allbrd, 
A  pica  far  sating  the  unnatural  thirst 
For  nnu'der,  rapine,  violence,  and  crime, 
That  still  consumed  thy  being,  even  when 
Thou  heardst  the  step  of  fate  ; — that  flames  might 

light 
Thy  funeral  scene,  and  the  shrill  horrent  shrieks 
Of  parents  dying  on  the  pile  that  burn'd 
To  light  their  children  to  thy  paths,  the  roar 
Of  the  encircling  flames,  the  exulting  cries 
Of  thine  apostles,  loud  commingling  there, 

Might  sate  thy  hungiy  ear 

Even  on  the  bed  of  death ! 

But  now  contempt  is  mocking  thy  gray  hairs ; 
Thou  art  descending  to  the  darksome  grave, 
Uidionourcd  and  unpitied,  but  by  those 
Whose  pride  is  passing  by  like  thine,  and  sheds, 
Like  thine,  a  glare  that  fodcs  before  the  sun 
Of  truth,  and  shines  but  in  the  dreadful  night 
That  long  has  lowered  above  the  ruined  world. 

Throughout  these  infmite  orbs  of  mingling  light, 

Of  which  yon  earth  is  one,  is  wide  diffused 

A  spirit  of  activity  and  life. 

That  knows  no  term,  cessation,  or  delay  ; 

That  fades  not  when  the  lamp  of  earthly  life. 

Extinguished  in  the  dampness  of  the  grave. 

Awhile  there  slumbers,  more  than  when  the  babe 

In  the  dim  newness  of  its  being  feels 

The  impulses  of  sublunary  things. 

And  all  is  wonder  to  unpractised  sense : 

But,  active,  steadfast,  and  eternal,  still 

Guides  the  fierce  whirlwind,  in  the  tempest  roars, 

Cheers  in  the  day,  breathes  in  the  balmy  groves. 

Strengthens  in  heaUh,  and  poisons  in  disease ; 

And  in  the  storm  of  change,  that  ceaselessly 

Rolls  round  the  eternal  universe,  and  shakes 

Its  undecaying  battlement,  presides. 

Apportioning  with  iiTesistible  law     ' 

The  place  each  spring  of  its  machine  shall  fill ; 

So  that,  when  waves  on  waves  tunndtuous  heap 

Confusion  to  the  clouds,  and  iiercely  driven 

Heaven's   lightnings   scorch  the   uprooted   ocean 

fords. 
Whilst,  to  the  eye  of  shipwrecked  mariner. 
Lone  sitting  on  the  bare  and  shuddering  rock. 
All  seem  unlinked  contingency  and  chance : 
No  atom  of  this  turbulence  fulfils 
A  vague  and  unnecessitatcd  task. 
Or  acts  but  as  it  nuist  or  ought  to  act. 
Even  the  minutest  molecule  of  light. 
That  in  an  Ajiril  sunbeam's  fleeting  glow 
Fulfils  its  destined,  though  invisible  work, 


The  universal  Spirit  guides ;  nor  less 

When  merciless  ambition,  or  mad  zeal. 

Has  led  two  hosts  of  dupes  to  batllc-ficld. 

That,  blind,   they    there    may    dig  each    other's 

graves 
And  call  the  sad  work  glory,  does  it  rule 
All  passions:  not  a  thought,  a  will,  an  act, 
No  working  of  the  tyrant's  moody  mind. 
Nor  one  misgiving  of  the  slaves  who  boast 
Their  servitude,  to  hide  the  shame  they  feel. 
Nor  the  events  enchaining  every  will. 
That  from  the  depths  of  unrecorded  time 
Have  drawn  all-influencing  virtue,  pass 
Unrecognised  or  unforeseen  by  thee, 
Soul  of  the  Universe  !  eternal  spring 
Of  life  and  death,  of  happiness  and  wo. 
Of  all  that  chequers  the  phantasmal  scene 
That  floats  before  our  eyes  in  wavering  light. 
Which  gleams  but  on  the  darkness  of  our  prison. 

Whose  chains  and  massy  walls 

We  feel  but  cannot  see. 

Spirit  of  Nature  !  all  sufficing  Power. 
Necessity  !  thou  mother  of  the  world  ! 
Unlike  the  God  of  human  error,  thou 
Requirest  no  prayers  or  praises ;  the  caprice 
Of  man's  weak  will  belongs  no  more  to  thee 
Than  do  the  changeful  passions  of  his  breast 
To  thy  unvarying  harmony :  the  slave. 
Whose  horrible  lusts  spread  misery  o'er  the  world. 
And  the  good  man,  who  lifts,  with  virtuous  pride, 
His  being,  in  the  sight  of  happiness, 
That  springs  from  his  own  works ;  the  poison-tree, 
Beneath  whose  shade  all  fife  is  withered  up, 
And  the  fair  oak,  whose  leafy  dome  affords 
A  temple  where  the  vows  of  happy  love 
Are  register'd,  are  equal  in  thy  sight : 
No  love,  no  hate  thou  chcrishest ;  revenge 
And  favouritism,  and  worst  desire  of  fame. 
Thou   knowest    not:     all    that   the    wide    world 

contains 
Are  but  thy  passive  instruments,  and  thou 
Regard' st  them  all  with  an  impartial  eye 
Whose  joy  or  pain  thy  nature  cannot  feel, 
Because  thou  hast  not  human  sense. 
Because  thou  art  not  human  mind. 

Yes  !  when  the  sweeping  storm  of  time 
Has  sung  its  death-dirge  o'er  the  ruined  fanes 
And  broken  altars  of  the  alm.ighty  fiend 
Whose  name  usurps  thj'  honours,  and  the  blood 
Through  centuries  clotted  there,  has  floated  down 
The  tainted  flood  of  ages,  shalt  thou  live 
Unchangeable !  A  shrine  is  raised  to  thee, 

Which,  nor  the  tempest  breath  of  time. 

Nor  the  interminable  flood. 

Over  earth's  slight  pageant  rolling, 
Availeth  to  destroy, — 
The  sensitive  extension  of  the  vyorld. 

That  wondrous  and  eternal  fane. 
Where  pain  and  pleasure,  good  and  evil  join. 
To  do  the  will  of  strong  necessity. 

And  life  in  multitudinous  shapes. 
Still  pressing  forward  where  no  term  can  be, 

Like  huncT)'  and  unresting  flame 
Curls  round  the  eternal  columns  of  its  strength. 


30 


QUEEN    MAB. 


VII. 


I  WAS  an  infant  when  my  mother  went 

To  see  an  atheist  burned.     She  took  me  there : 

The  dark-robed  priests  were  met  aroimd  the  pile ; 

The  muhitudc  was  gazin?  silently ; 

And  as  the  eulprit  passed  with  dauntless  mien, 

Tempered  disdain  in  his  unaltering  eye, 

Mixed  with  a  quiet  smile,  shone  calmly  forth : 

The  thristy  fire  crept  round  his  manly  limbs ; 

His  resolute  eyes  were  scorched  to  blindness  soon ; 

His  death-pang  rent  my  heart !  the  insensate  mob 

Uttered  a  cry  of  triumph,  and  I  wept. 

Weep  not,  child !  cried  my  mother,  for  that  man 

Has  said,  There  is  no  God. 


There  is  no  God ! 
Nature  confirms  the  fiiith  his  death-groan  seal'd : 
Let  heaven  and  earth,  let  man's  revolving  race, 
His  ceaseless  generations,  tell  their  tale ; 
Let  every  part  depending  on  the  chain 
That  links  it  to  the  whole,  point  to  the  hand 
That  grasps  its  term  !  Let  every  seed  that  falls, 
In  silent  eloquence  unfold  its  store 
Of  argument :  infinity  within. 
Infinity  without,  bche  creation ; 
The  exterminable  spirit  it  contains 
Is  nature's  only  God  ;  but  human  pride 
Is  skilftJ  to  invent  most  serious  names 
To  hide  its  ignorance. 

The  name  of  God 
Has  fenced  about  all  crime  with  holiness, 
Himself  the  creature  of  his  worsliippers, 
Whose  names  and  attributes  and  passions  change, 
Seeva,  Buddh,  Fob,  Jehovah,  God.  or  Lord, 
Even  with  the  human  dupes  who  build  his  shrines. 
Still  serving  o'er  the  war-polluted  world 
For  desolation's  watchword ;  whether  hosts 
Stain  his  death-blushing  chariot  wheels,  as  on 
Triumphantly  they  roll,  whilst  Brahmins  raise 
A  sacred  hymn  to  mingle  with  the  groans ; 
Or  countless  partners  of  his  power  divide 
His  tyranny  to  weakiiess ;  or  the  smoke 
Pf  burning  towns,  the  cries  of  female  helpless- 
ness, 
Unarmed  old  age,  and  youth,  and  infancy, 
Horribly  massacred,  ascend  to  heaven 
In  honour  of  his  name  ;  or,  last  and  worst, 
Earth  groans  beneath  religion's  iron  age, 
And  priests  dare  babble  of  a  God  of  peace, 
Even  whilst  their  hands  are  red  with  guiltless 

blood, 
Murdering  the  while,  uprooting  evcrj'  germ 
Of  truth,  exterminating,  spoiling  all. 
Making  the  earth  a  slaughter-house ! 

0  Spirit !  through  the  sense 
By  which  tliy  inner  nature  was  apprized 

Of  outward  shows  vague  dreams  have  roll'd, 
And  varied  reminiscences  have  waked 

Tablets  that  never  fade ; 
All  things  have  been  imprinted  there, 
The  stars,  the  sea,  tlie  earth  the  sky, 


Even  the  unshapeliest  lineaments 
Of  wild  and  fleeting  visions 
Have  left  a  record  there 
To  testify  of  earth. 

These  are  my  empire,  for  to  me  is  given 
The  wonders  of  the  human  world  to  keep. 
And  fancy's  thin  creations  to  endow 
\A'ith  manner,  being,  and  reahty  ; 
Therefore  a  wondrous  phantom,  from  the  dreams 
Of  human  error's  dense  and  purblind  faith, 
I  will  evoke,  to  meet  thy  questioning. 
Ahasuerus  rise ! 

A  strange  and  wo-wom  wight 
Arose  beside  the  liattlcment. 

And  stood  unmo\'ing  there. 
His  inessential  figure  cast  no  shade 

Upon  the  golden  floor; 
His  port  and  mien  bore  mark  of  many  years 
And  chronicles  of  untold  ancientness 
Were  legible  within  his  beamless  eye  ; 

Yet  his  cheek  bore  the  mark  of  youth ; 
Freshness  and  vigour  knit  his  manly  frame; 
The  wisdom  of  old  age  was  mingled  there 
With  youth's  primeval  dauntlessness ; 

And  inexpressible  wo, 
Chasten'd  by  fearless  resignation,  gave 
An  awful  grace  to  his  all-speaking  brow. 

SPIKIT. 

Is  there  a  God] 

AHASUERUS. 

Is  there  a  God  I — ay,  an  almighty  God, 
And  vengeful  as  almighty  !     Once  his  voice 
Was  heard  on  earth ;  earth  shudder'd  at  the  sound ; 
The  fier}'-\'isaged  firmament  express'd 
Abhorrence,  and  the  grave  of  nature  yawn'd 
To  swallow  all  the  dauntless  and  the  good 
That  dared  to  hurl  defiance  at  his  throne, 
Girt  as  it  was  with  power.     None  but  slaves 
Survived, — cold-blooded  slaves,  who  did  the  work 
Of  tyrannous  omnipotence  ;  whose  souls 
jN'o  honest  indignation  ever  urged 
To  elevated  daring,  to  one  deed 
Which  gross  and  sensual  self  did  not  pollute. 
These  slaves  built  temples  for  the  omnipotent  fiend, 
Gorgeous  and  vast :  the  costly  altars  smoked 
With  human  blood,  and  hideous  pagans  nmg 
Through  all  the  long-drawn  aisles.     A  nnu-dercr 

heard 
His  voice  in  Egjpt,  one  whose  gifts  and  arts 
Had  raised  him  to  his  eminence  in  power. 
Accomplice  of  onmipotence  in  crime. 
And  confident  of  tlic  all-knowing  one. 
These  were  Jehovah's  words. 

From  an  eternity  of  idleness 

I,  God,  awoke ;  in  seven  days'  toil  made  earth 

From  nothing ;  rested,  and  created  man : 

I  placed  him  in  a  paradise,  and  there 

Planted  the  tree  of  evil,  so  that  he 

Miglit  eat  and  perish,  and  my  soul  procure 

Wherewith  to  sate  its  malice,  and  to  turn, 

Even  like  a  heartless  conqueror  of  the  earth. 

All  misery  to  my  fame.     The  race  of  men 

Chosen  to  my  honour,  with  impunity 


QUEEN    MAB. 


— ^ 

31 


May  sate  the  lusts  I  planted  in  their  heart. 
Here  I  coinniand  thee  hence  to  lead  tliem  on, 
Until,  with  harden'dfect,  their  conquering  troops 
Wade  on  the  promised  soil  through  woman's  blood, 
And  make  my  name  he  dreaded  tlirough  the  laud. 
Yet  ever-burning  flame  and  ceaseless  wo 
Shall  be  the  doom  of  their  eternal  souls. 
With  every  soul  on  this  ungrateful  earth, 
^'irtuous  or  vicious,  weak  or  strong, — 'Cven  all 
Shall  perish,  to  fulfil  the  blind  revenge 
r  Which  you,  to  men,  call  justice)  of  their  God. 

The  murderer's  brow 
Quiver'd  with  horror. 

God  omnipotent, 
Is  there  no  mercy  1   must  our  punishment 
Be  endless  ]  will  long  ages  roll  away, 
And  see  no  term  ]   Oh  !  wherefore  hast  thou  made 
In  mockery  and  wrath  this  evil  earth  ? 
Mercy  becomes  the  powerful — ^be  but  just: 

0  God  !  repent  and  save. 

One  way  remains: 

1  will  beget  a  son,  and  he  shall  bear 
The  sins  of  all  the  world  ;  he  shall  arise 
In  an  unnoticed  corner  of  the  earth, 

And  there  shall  die  upon  a  cross,  and  purge 
The  universal  crime ;  so  that  the  few 
On  whom  my  grace  descends,  those  who  are  mark'd 
As  vessels  to  the  honour  of  their  God, 
May  credit  this  strange  sacrifice,  and  save 
Their  souls  alive :  millions  shall  live  and  die, 
W-ho  ne'er  shall  call  upon  their  Saviour's  name. 
But,  unredeemed,  go  to  the  gaping  grave. 
Thousands  shall  deem  it  an  old  woman's  tale, 
Such  as  the  nurses  frighten  babes  withal : 
These  in  a  gulf  of  anguish  and  of  flame 
Shall  curse  their  reprobation  endlessly. 
Yet  tenfold  pangs  shall  force  them  to  avow, 
Even  on  their  beds  of  torment,  where  they  howl. 
My  honour,  and  the  justice  of  their  doom. 
What  then  avail  their  virtuous  deeds,  their  thoughts 
Of  purity,  with  rachant  genius  bright, 
Or  ht  with  human  reason's  earthly  ray  1 
Many  are  called,  but  few  will  I  elect. 
Do  thou  my  bidding,  Moses  ! 

Even  the  murderer's  cheek 
Was  blanched  with  horror,  and  his  quivering  Ups 
Scarce  faintly  uttered — 0  almighty  one, 
I  tremble  and  obey  ! 

0  Spirit !  centuries  have  set  their  seal 

On  this  heart  of  m.any  wounds,  and  loaded  brain. 

Since  the  Incarnate  came :  humbly  he  came. 

Veiling  his  horrible  Godhead  in  the  shape 

Of  man,  scorned  by  the  world,  his  name  unheard, 

Save  by  the  rabble  of  his  native  town. 

Even  a-s  a  parish  demagogue.     He  led       « 

The  crowd;    he  taught  them  justice,  truth,  and 

peace. 
In  semblance  ;  but  he  lit  wdthin  their  souls 
The  quenchless  flames  of  zeal,  and  blest  the  sword 
He  brought  on  earth  to  satiate  with  the  blood 
•  Of  truth  and  freedom  his  malignant  soul. 
At  length  his  mortal  frame  was  led  to  death. 

1  stood  beside  him :  on  the  torturing  cross 


No  pain  as.sailed  his  unterre.strial  sense ; 

And  yet  he  groaned.     Indignantly  I  summed 

The  massacres  and  miseries  which  his  name 

Had  sanctioned  in  my  country,  and  I  cried, 

Go  !  go  !  in  mockery. 

A  smile  of  godlike  malice  reillumed 

His  fading  lineaments. — I  go,  he  cried. 

But  thou  shalt  wander  o'er  the  unquiet  earth 

Eternally. The  dampness  of  the  grave 

Bathed  my  imj)erishal)le  front.     I  fell. 

And  long  lay  tranced  upon  the  charmed  soil. 

When  I  awoke  hell  burned  within  my  brain, 

\A'hich  staggered  on  its  seat;  for  all  around 

The  mouldering  relics  of  my  kindred  lay,  • 

Even  as  the  Almighty's  ire  arrested  them, 

And  in  their  various  attitudes  of  death 

My  murdered  children's  mute  and  eyeless  sculls 

Glared  ghastly  upon  me. 

But  my  soul. 
From  sight  and  sense  of  the  polluting  wo 
Of  tyranny,  had  long  learned  to  prefer 
Hell's  freedom  to  the  servitude  of  heaven. 
Therefore  I  rose,  and  dauntlessly  began 
My  lonely  and  unending  pilgrimage. 
Resolved  to  wage  unweariable  war 
With  my  almighty  tyrant,  and  to  hurl 
Defiance  at  his  impotence  to  harm 
Beyond  the  curse  I  bore.     The  very  hand 
That  liarred  my  passage  to  the  peaceful  grave 
Has  crushed  tlie  earth  to  misery,  and  given 
Its  empire  to  the  chosen  of  his  slaves. 
These  have  I  seen,  even  from  the  earliest  dawn 
Of  weak,  unstable,  and  precarious  power ; 
Then  preaching  peace,  as  now  they  practise  war, 
So,  when  they  turned  but  from  the  massacre 
Of  unolfending  infidels,  to  quench 
Their  thirst  for  ruin  in  the  very  blood 
That  flowed  in  their  own  veins,  and  pitiless  zeal 
Froze  every  human  feeling,  as  the  wife 
Sheathed  in  her  husband's  heart  the  sacred  steel. 
Even  whilst  its  hopes  were  dreaming  of  her  love; 
And  friends  to  friends,  brothers  to  brothers  .stood 
Opposed  in  bloodiest  battle-field,  and  war. 
Scarce  satiable  by  fate's  last  death-draught  waged, 
Drunk  from   the  wine-press   of   the    Almighty's 

wrath; 
Whilst  the  red  cross,  in  mockery  of  peace. 
Pointed  to  victory !   When  the  fra}-  was  done. 
No  remnant  of  the  exterminated  faith 
Survived  to  tell  its  ruin,  but  the  flesh. 
With  putrid  smoke  poisoning  the  atmosphere, 
That  rotted  on  the  half-extinguished  pile. 

Yes !  I  have  seen  God's  worshippers  unsheath 
The  sword  of  his  revenge,  when  grace  descended. 
Confirming  all  unnatural  impulses. 
To  sanctify  their  desolating  deeds  ; 
And  frantic  priests  waved  the  ill-omened  cross 
O'er  the  unhappy  earth :  then  shone  the  sun 
On  showers  of  gore  from  the  upflashing  steel 
Of  safe  assassination,  and  all  crime 
Made  stingless  by  the  spirits  of  the  Lord, 
And  blood-red  rainbows  canopied  the  land. 

Spirit !  no  year  of  my  eventful  being 
Has  passed  unstained  by  crime  and  misery, 


32 


QUEEN    MAB. 


Which  flows  fi-om  God's  own  faith.     I've  markctl 

his  shivi's, 
With  tongues  whose  lies  are  venomous,  beguile 
The  insensate  mob,  and  whilst  one  hand  was  red 
With  nnirdor,  i'cign  to  stretch  the  other  out 
For  brotherhood  and  peace ;  and,  that  they  now 
Babble  of  love  and  mcrcj-,  whilst  their  deeds 
Are  marked  with  all  the  narrowness  and  crime 
That  freedom's  young  arm  dares  not  yet  chastise, 
Reason  may  claim  our  gratitude,  who  now, 
Establishing  the  imperishable  throne 
Of  truth,  and  stubborn  virtue,  maketh  vain 
The  un[)revailiiig  malice  of' my  foe, 
Whose  bootless  rage  heaps  torments  for  the  brave, 
Adds  impotent  etef-nities  to  pain. 
Whilst  keenest  disappointment  racks  his  breast 
To  see  the  smiles  of  peace  around  them  play, 
To  frustrate  or  to  sanctify  their  doom. 

Thus  have  I  stood, — through  a  wild  waste  of  years 
Sti-uggling  with  whirlwinds  of  mad  agony, 
Yet  peaccfid,  and  serene,  and  self-enshrined, 
Mocking  my  powerless  tyrant's  horrible  curse 
With  stubborn  and  unalterable  will, 
Even  as  a  giant  oak,  which  heaven's  fierce  flame 
Had  scathed  in  the  wilderness,  to  stand 
A  monument  of  flidcless  ruin  there ; 
Yet  peacefully  and  movclessly  it  braves 
The  midnight  conflict  of  the  wintry  stonn. 
As  in  tiic  sun-liglit's  calm  it  spreads 
Its  worn  and  witliered  arms  on  high 
To  meet  the  quiet  of  a  summer's  noon. 

The  Fairy  waved  her  wand  : 
Ahasuerus  fled 
Fast  as  tlie  shapes  of  mingled  shade  and  mist, 
That  lurk  in  the  glens  of  a  twilight  grove. 
Flee  from  the  morning  beam : 
The  matter  of  which  dreams  are  made 
Not  more  endowed  with  actual  life 
Than  this  phantasmal  portraiture 
Of  wandering  human  thought. 


YIII. 

The  present  and  the  past  thou  hast  beheld : 
It  was  a  desolate  sight.     Now,  .Spirit,  learn. 

The  secrets  of  the  fnturc. — Time ! 
Unfold  the  brooding  pinion  of  thy  gloom, 
Render  thou  up  thy  half-devoured  babes. 
And  from  the  cradles  of  eternity. 
Where  millions  lie  lulled  to  their  portioned  sleep 
By  the  deep  murmuring  stream  of  passing  things, 
Tear  thou  that  gloomy  shroud. — Spirit,  behold 
Thy  glorious  destiny ! 

Joy  to  the  Spirit  came, 
Through  the  wide  rent  in  Time's  eternal  veil, 
Hope  was  seen  beaming  through  the  mists  of  fear  : 

Earth  was  no  longer  hell; 

Love,  freedom,  health,  had  given 
Their  ripeness  to  the  manhood  of  its  prime, 

And  all  its  pulses  beat 
Symphonions  to  tlie  jjlanetary  spheres  : 

Then  dulcet  music  swelled 


Concordant  with  the  life-strings  of  the  soul ; 
It  throbbed  in  sweet  and  languid  beatings  there. 
Catching  new  life  from  transitory  death. — 
Like  the  vague  sighings  of  a  wind  at  even, 
That  wakes  the  wavelets  of  the  slumbering  sea, 
And  dies  on  the  creation  of  its  breath. 
And  sinks  and  rises,  fails  and  swells  by  fits : 
Was  the  pure  stream  of  feeling 
That  sprang  from  these  sweet  notes, 
And  o'er  the  Spirit's  human  sympathies 
With  mild  and  gentle  motion  calmly  flowed. 

Joy  to  the  Spirit  came, — 
Such  joy  as  when  a  lover  sees 
The  chosen  of  his  soul  in  happiness, 

And  witnesses  her  peace 
Whose  wo  to  him  were  bitterer  than  death ; 

Sees  her  unfaded  cheek 
Glow  mantling  in  first  luxury  of  health, 

Thrills  with  her  lovely  eyes, 
Which  like  two  stars  amid  the  heaving  main 

Sparkle  through  liquid  bliss. 

Then  in  her  triumph  spoke  the  Fairy  Queen : 
I. will  not  call  the  ghost  of  ages  gone 
To  unfold  the  frightful  secrets  of  its  lore ; 

The  present  now  is  past, 
And  those  events  that  desolate  the  earth 
Have  faded  from  the  memory  of  Time, 
Who  dares  not  give  reaUty  to  that 
Whose  being  I  annul.     To  me  is  given 
The  wonders  of  the  humair  world  to  keep. 
Space,  matter,  time,  and  mind.     Futurity 
Exposes  now  its  treasure;  let  the  sight 
Renew  and  strengthen  all  thy  failing  hope. 
O  human  Spirit !  spur  thee  to  the  goal 
Where  virtue  fixes  universal  peace. 
And,  'midst  the  ebb  and  flow  of  human  things. 
Show  somewhat  stable,  somewhat  certain  still, 
A  lighthouse  o'er  the  wild  of  dreary  waves. 

The  habitable  earth  is  full  of  bliss ; 
Those  wastes  of  frozen  billows  that  were  hurled 
By  everlasting  snow-storms  roimd  the  poles, 
Where  matter  <lared  not  vegetate  nor  live. 
But  ceaseless  frost  round  the  vast  solitude 
Bound  its  broad  zone  of  stillness,  are  unloosed ; 
And  fragrant  zephyrs  there  from  spicy  isles 
RuHle  the  jjlacid  ocean-deep,  that  rolls 
Its  broad,  bright  surges  to  the  sloping  sand, 
Whose  roar  is  wakened  into  echoings  sweet 
To  murmur  through  the  heaven-breathing  groves. 
And  melodize  with  man's  blest  nature  there. 

Those  deserts  of  innneasurable  sand. 
Whose  age-collected  fervours  scarce  allowed 
A  bird  to  live,  a  blade  of  grass  to  spring, 
Where  the  shrill  chirp  of  the  green  hzard's  love 
Broke  on  the  sultry  silentncss  alone, 
Now  teem  with  countless  rills  and  shady  woods, 
Corn-fields  and  pastures  and  white  cottages; 
And  where  the  startled  wilderness  beheld 
A  savage  concpicror  stained  in  kindred  blood, 
A  tigress  sating  with  the  flesh  of  lambs 
The  unnatural  famine  of  her  toothless  cubs. 
While  shouts  and  bowlings  through  the  desert  rang; 
Sloping  and  smooth  the  daisy-spangled  lawn, 


QUEEN    MAB. 


33 


Otfcring  swert  incense  to  the  sunrise,  smiles 
To  sec  a  babe  before  its  mother's  door, 

Sliarinjj  his  morning's  meal 
With  the  green  and  golden  basilisk 

That  comes  to  lick  hid  feet. 

Those  trackless  deeps,  where  many  a  weary  sail 
Has  seen  above  the  illimitable  plain. 
Morning  on  night,  and  night  on  morning  rise, 
Whilst  still  no  land  to  greet  the  wanderer  spread 
Its  shadowy  mountains  on  the  sun-bright  sea, 
Where  the  loud  roaring  of  the  tempest-waves 
So  long  have  mingled  with  the  gusty  wind 
In  melancholy  loneliness,  and  swept 
The  desert  of  those  ocean  solitudes, 
But  vocal  to  the  sea-bird's  harrowing  shriek, 
The  bellowing  monster,  and  the  rushing  storm ; 
Now  to  the  sweet  and  many  mingling  sounds 
Of  kindliest  human  impulses  respond. 
Those  lonely  realms  bright  garden-isles  begem, 
With  lightsome  clouds  and  shining  seas  between. 
And  fertile  valleys,  resonant  with  bliss, 
W^hilst  green  woods  overcanopy  the  wave. 
Which  like  a  toil-worn  labourer  leajjs  to  shore, 
To  meet  the  kisses  of  the  flovsrets  there. 

All  things  are  recreated,  and  the  flame 
Of  consentaneous  love  inspires  all  life : 
The  fertile  bosom  of  the  earth  gives  suck 
To  myriads,  who  still  grow  beneath  her  care. 
Rewarding  her  with  their  pure  pcrfectness  : 
The  balmy  breathings  of  the  wind  inhale 
Her  virtues,  and  diffuse  tiiem  all  abroad  : 
Health  floats  amid  the  gentle  atmosphere, 
Glows  in  the  fruits,  and  mantles  on  the  stream : 
No  storms  deform  the  beaming  brow  of  heaven. 
Nor  scatter  in  the  freshness  of  its  pride 
The  foliage  of  the  ever-verdant  trees ; 
But  fruits  are  ever  ripe,  flowers  ever  fair. 
And  autumn  proudly  bears  her  matron  .grace. 
Kindling  a  flush  on  the  fair  cheek  of  spring. 
Whose  virgin  bloom  beneath  the  ruddy  fruit 
Reflects  its  tint,  and  blushes  into  love. 

The  lion  now  forgets  to  thirst  for  blood : 
There  might  you  see  him  sporting  in  the  sun, 
Beside  the  dreadless  kid;  his  claws  are  sheathed. 
His  teeth  are  harmless,  custom's  force  has  made 
His  nature  as  the  nature  of  a  lamb. 
Like  passion's  fruit,  the  nightshade's  tempting  bane 
Poisons  no  more  the  pleasure  it  bestows : 
All  bitterness  is  past ;  the  cup  of  joy 
Unmingled  mantles  to  the  goblet's  brim, 
And  courts  the  thirsty  lips  it  fled  before. 

But  chief,  ambiguous  man,  he  that  can  know 
More  misery,  and  dream  more  joy  than  all ; 
Whose  keen  sensations  thrill  within  his  breast 
To  mingle  with  a  loftier  instinct  there, 
Lending  their  power  to  pleasure  and  to  pain, 
Yet  raising,  sharpening,  and  refining  each ; 
Who  stands  amid  the  ever-varjing  world, 
The  burden  or  the  glorj-  of  the  earth ; 
He  chief  perceives  the  change ;  his  being  notes 
The  gradual  renovation,  and  defines 
Each  movement  of  its  progress  on  his  mind. 
5 


Man,  where  the  gloom  of  the  long  polar  night 
Lowers  o'er  the  snow-clad  rocks  and  frozen  soil. 
Where  scarce  the  hardiest  herl)  that  braves  the  frost 
Basks  in  the  moonlight's  inellectual  glow, 
Shrank  with  the  plants,  and  darkened  with  the  night ; 
His  cliilled  and  narrow  energies,  his  heart, 
Insensible  to  courage,  truth,  or  love, 
His  stunted  stature  and  imbecile  frame. 
Marked  him  for  some  abortion  of  the  earth. 
Fit  compeer  of  the  bears  that  roamed  around. 
Whose  habits  and  enjoyments  were  his  own  : 
His  life  a  feverish  dream  of  stagnant  wo. 
Whose  meagre  wants,  but  scantily  fulfilled, 
Apprized  him  ever  of  the  joyous  length 
Which  his  short  being's  wretchedness  had  reached; 
His  death  a  pang  which  famine,  cold,  and  toil, 
Long  on  the  mind,  whilst  yet  the  vital  sjiark 
Clung  to  the  body  stubbornly,  had  brought : 
All  was  inflicted  here  that  earth's  revenge 
Could  wreak  on  the  infringers  of  her  law ; 
One  curse  alone  was  spared — the  name  of  God. 

Nor,  where  the  tropics  bound  the  realms  of  day 
With  a  broad  belt  of  mingling  cloud  and  flame. 
Where  blue  mists  through  the  unmoving  atmo- 
Scattered  the  seeds  of  pestilence,  and  fed    Tsphere 
Unnatural  vegetation,  where  the  land 
Teemed  with  all  earthquake,  tempest,  and  disease. 
Was  man  a  nobler  being ;  slavery  [dust ; 

Had  crushed  him  to  his  country's  blood-stained 
Or  he  was  bartered  for  the  fame  of  power, 
Which,  all  internal  impulses  destroying. 
Makes  human  will  an  article  of  trade  ; 
Or  he  was  changed  with  Christians  for  their  gold, 
And  dragged  to  distant  isles,  where  to  the  sound 
Of  the  flesh-mangling  scourge,  he  does  t!ie  work 
Of  all-polluting  luxury  and  wealth. 
Which  doubly  visits  on  the  tyrants'  heads 
The  long-protracted  fulness  of  their  wo ; 
Or  he  was  led  to  legal  butchery, 
To  turn  to  worms  beneath  that  burning  sun 
Where  kings  first  leagued  against  the  rights  of  men. 
And  priests  first  traded  with  the  name  of  God. 

Even  where  the  milder  zone  aflbrded  man 

A  seeming  shelter,  yet  contagion  there. 

Blighting  his  being  with  imnumbercd  ills, 

Spread  like  a  quenchless  fire ;  nor  truth  till  late 

Availed  to  arrest  its  progress,  or  create 

That  peace  which  first  in  bloodless  victory  waved 

Her  snowy  standard  o'er  this  favoured  clime : 

There  man  was  long  the  train-bearer  of  slaves, 

The  mimic  of  surrounding  misery. 

The  jackal  of  ambition's  lion-rage. 

The  bloodhound  of  religion's  hungry  zeal. 

Here  now  the  human  being  stands  adorning 
This  loveliest  earth  with  taintless  body  and  mind; 
Blest  from  his  birth  with  all  bland  impulses, 
Which  gently  in  his  noble  bosom  wake 
All  kindly  passions  and  all  pure  desires. 
Him  (still  from  hope  to  hope  the  bliss  pursuing. 
Which  from  the  exhaustless  store  of  human  weal 
Draws  on  the  virtuous  mind)  the  thoughts  that  rise 
In  time-destroying  infiniteness,  gift; 
With  self-enshrmed  eternity,  that  mocks 


34 


QUEEN    MAB. 


The  unprcvailiug  hoariiicss  of  age, 

And  man,  once  floetin^c  o'er  the  transient  scene 

Swift  as  an  unreniembcred  vision,  sUinds 

Immortal  upon  cartli :  no  lonper  now 

He  shiys  the  lamb  that  looks  him  in  the  face, 

And  horribly  devours  his  mangled  flesh, 

Which,  still  aventring  nature's  broken  law, 

Kindled  all  putrid  humours  in  his  frame, 

All  evil  passions,  and  all  vain  belief, 

Hatred,  despair,  and  loathing  in  his  mind, 

The  germs  of  misery,  death,  disease,  and  crime. 

No  longer  now  the  winged  habitants, 

That  in  the  woods  their  sweet  lives  sing  away. 

Flee  firom  the  form  of  man;  but  gather  round. 

And  prune  their  sunny  feathers  on  the  hands 

Which  little  children  stretch  in  friendly  sport 

Towards  these  drcadless  partners  of  their  play. 

All  things  are  void  of  terror :  man  has  lost 

His  terrible  prerogative,  and  stands 

An  equal  amidst  equals:  happiness 

And  science  dawn,  though  late,  upon  the  earth ; 

Peace  cheerij  the  mind,  health  renovates  the  frame; 

Disease  and  pleasure  cease  to  mingle  here. 

Reason  and  passion  cease  to  combat  there ; 

W'hilst  each  unfettered  o'er  the  earth  extends 

Its  all-subduing  energies,  and  wields 

The  sceptre  of  a  vast  dominion  there  ; 

Whilst  everv-  shape  and  mode  of  matter  lends 

Its  force  to  the  omnipotence  of  mind. 

Which  from  its  dark  mine  drags  the  gem  of  truth 

To  decorate  its  paradise  of  peace. 


IX. 

O  HAPPY  Earth  !  reality  of  Heaven  ! 
To  wliich  those  restless  souls  that  ceaselessly 
Throng  through  the  human  universe,  aspire ; 
Thou  consummation  of  all  mortal  hope  ! 
Thou  glorious  prize  of  blindly-working  will ! 
Whose  rays,  diffused  throughout  all  space  and  time. 
Verge  to  one  point  and  blend  for  ever  there : 
Of  purest  spirits  thou  pure  dwelling-place  ! 
Where  care  and  sorrow,  impotence  and  crime. 
Languor,  disease,  and  ignorance,  dare  not  come : 
O  happy  Earth,  reality  of  Heaven  ! 

Genius  has  seen  thee  in  her  passionate  dreams ; 
And  dim  forebodings  of  thj'  loveliness, 
Haunting  the  human  heart,  have  there  entwined 
Those  rooted  hopes  of  some  sweet  place  of  bliss, 
Where  friends  and  lovers  meet  to  part  no  more. 
Thou  art  the  end  of  all  desire  and  will. 
The  product  of  all  action ;  and  the  souls 
That  by  the  patiis  of  an  aspiring  change 
Have  reached  thy  haven  of  perpetual  peace, 
There  rest  from  the  eternity  of  toil 
That  framed  the  fabric  of  thy  perfectness. 

Even  Time,  the  conqueror,  fled  thee  in  his  fear ; 

That  hoary  giant,  who,  in  lonely  pride. 

So  long  had  ruled  the  world,  that  nations  fell 

Beneath  his  silent  footstep.    Pyramids, 

That  for  millenniums  had  withstood  the  tide 

Of  human  things,  his  storm-breath  drove  in  sand 

Across  that  desert  where  their  stones  survived 


The  name  of  him  whose  pride  had  heaped  them 

there, 
i'on  monarch,  in  his  solitary  pomp. 
Was  but  the  nuishroom  of  a  summer  day. 
That  his  light^winged  footscp  pressed  to  dust : 
Time  was  the  king  of  earth:  all  things  gave  way 
Before  him,  but  the  fixed  and  virtuous  will. 
The  sacred  sympathies  of  soul  and  sense. 
That  mocked  his  furj-  and  prepared  his  fall. 

Yet  slow  and  gradual  dawned  the  mom  of  love ; 
liong  lay  the  clouds  of  darkness  o'er  the  scene, 
Till  from  its  native  heaven  they  rolled  away : 
First,  crime  triumphant  o'er  all  hope  careered 
Unblushing,  undisguising,  bold  and  strong; 
Whilst  falsehood,  trickled  in  virtue's  attributes, 
Long  sanctilied  all  deeds  of  vice  and  wo. 
Till,  done  by  her  own  venomous  sting  to  death, 
She  left  the  moral  world  without  a  law. 
No  longer  fettering  passion's  fearless  wing. 
Then  steadily  the  hapj)y  ferment  worked ; 
Reason  was  free ;  and  wild  tliough  passion  went 
Through    tangled    glens    and    wood-embosomed 

meads. 
Gathering  a  garland  of  the  strangest  flowers. 
Yet.  like  the  bee  returning  to  her  queen, 
She  bound  the  sweetest  on  her  sister's  brow. 
Who  meek  and  sober,  kissed  the  sportive  child, 
No  longer  trembling  at  the  broken  rod. 

Mild  was  the  slow  necessity  of  death : 

The  tranquil  Spirit  failed  beneath  its  grasp. 

Without  a  groan,  almost  without  a  fear. 

Calm  as  a  voyager  to  .some  distant  land. 

And  full  of  wonder,  full  of  hope  as  he. 

The  deadly  germs  of  languor  and  disease 

Died  in  the  human  frame,  and  purity 

Blest  with  all  gift,s  her  earthly  worshippers. 

How  vigorous  then  the  athletic  form  of  age  ! 

How  clear  its  open  and  unwrinkled  brow  ! 

Where  neither  avarice,  cunning,  pride,  nor  care. 

Had  stamped  the  seal  of  gray  deformity 

On  all  the  mingling  lineaments  of  time. 

How  lovely  the  intrepid  front  of  youth  ! 

Which  meek-eyed  courage   decked  with   freshest 

Courage  of  soul,  that  dreaded  not  a  name,  [grace; 

And  elevated  will,  that  journeyed  on 

Through  life's  phantasmal  scene  in  fearlessness. 

With  virtue,  love,  and  pleasure,  hand  in  hand. 

Then,  that  sweet  bondage  which  is  freedom's  self. 

And  rivets  with  sensation's  softest  tie 

The  kindred  sympathies  of  human  souls, 

Needed  no  fetters  of  tyrannic  law. 

Those  delicate  and  timid  impulses 

In  nature's  primal  modesty  arose, 

And  with  undoubting  confidence  disclosed 

The  growing  longings  of  its  dawning  love, 

ITnchecked  by  d,ull  and  selfish  chastity. 

That  virtue  of  the  cheaply  virtuous, 

W'ho  pride  themselves  in  senselessness  and  frost. 

No  longer  prostitution's  venomed  bane 

Poisoned  the  springs  of  happiness  and  life ; 

Woman  and  man,  in  confiilence  and  love, 

Ecpial  and  free  and  pure,  together  trod 

The  motmtain-paths  of  virtue,  which  no  more 

Were  stained  with  blood  from  many  a  pilsrrim's  feet. 


QUEEN    MAB. 


35 


Then,  where,  through  distant  ages,  h)ng  in  pride 
The  palace  of  the  monarch-slave  had  mocked 
Famine's  fuint-groan,  and  penury's  silent  tear, 
A  heap  of  crumhling  ruins  stood,  and  threw 
Year  after  j'ear  their  stones  upon  the  field, 
Wakening  a  lonely  echo ;  and  the  leaves 
Of  the  old  thorn,  that  on  the  topmost  tower 
Usurped  the  royal  ensign's*  grandeur,  shook 
In  tlic  stern  storm  that  swayed  the  topmost  tower, 
And  whispered  strange  tales  in  the  whirlwind's  ear. 
Low  through  the  lone  cathedral's  roofless  aisles 
The  melancholy  winds  a  death-dirge  sung: 
It  were  a  sight  of  awfulncss  to  see 
The  works  of  faith  and  slavery,  so  vast, 
So  sumptuous,  yet  so  perishing  withal ! 
Even  as  the  corpse  that  rests  beneath  its  wall. 
A  thousand  mourners  deck  the  pomp  of  death 
To-day,  the  breathing  marble  glows  above 
To  decorate  its  memory,  and  tongues 
Are  busy  of  its  life  :  to-morrow,  worms 
In  silence  and  in  darkness  seize  their  prey. 

Within  the  massy  prison's  mouldering  courts, 
Fearless  and  free  the  ruddy  children  played. 
Weaving  gay  chaplets  for  their  innocent  brows 
With  the  green  ivy  and  the  red  wall-flower. 
That  mock  the  dungeon's  unavailing  gloom ; 
The  ponderous  chains,  and  gratings  of  strong  iron. 
There  rusted  amid  heaps  of  broken  stone. 
That  mingled  slowly  with  their  native  earth : 
There  the  broad  beam  of  day,  which  feebly  once 
Lighted  the  cheek  of  lean  captivity 
With  a  pale  and  sickly  glare,  then  freely  shone 
On  the  poor  smiles  of  infant  playfulness : 
No  more  the  shuddering  voice  of  hoarse  despair 
Pealed  through  the  echoing  vaults,  but  soothing 
Of  ivy-fingered  winds  and  gladsome  birds    [notes 
And  merriment  were  resonant  around. 
These  ruins  soon  left  not  a  wreck  behind  : 
Their  elements,  wide  .scattered  o'er  the  globe, 
To  happier  shapes  were  moulded,  and  became 
Ministrant  to  all  blissful  impulses  : 
Thus  human  things  were  perfected,  and  earth, 
Even  as  a  child  beneath  its  mother's  love. 
Was  strengthened  in  all  excellence,  and  grew 
Fairer  and  nobler  with  each  passing  year. 

Now  Time  his  dusky  pennotis  o'er  the  scene 
Closes  in  steadfast  darkness,  and  the  past 
Fades  from  our  charmed  sight.    My  task  is  done : 
Thy  lore  is  learned.  Earth's  wonders  are  thine  own, 
With  all  the  fear  and  all  the  hope  they  bring. 
My  spells  are  past :  the  present  now  recurs. 
Ah  me  !  a  pathless  wilderness  remains 
Yet  unsubdued  by  man's  reclaiming  hand. 

Yet,  human  Spirit !  bravely  hold  thy  course, 

Let  virtue  teach  thee  firmly  to  pursue 

The  gradual  paths  of  an  aspiring  change  : 

For  birth  and  life  and  death,  and  that  strange  state 

Before  the  naked  soul  has  found  its  home, 

All  tend  to  perfect  hapfjiness,  and  urge 

The  restless  wheels  of  being  on  their  way, 

Whose  flashing  spokes,  instinct  with  infinite  life, 

Bicker  and  burn  to  gain  their  destined  goal. 

For  birth  but  wakes  the  spirit  to  the  sense 

Of  outward  shows,  whose  unexperienced  shape 


New  modes  of  passion  to  its  frame  may  lend ; 
Life  is  its  state  of  action,  and  the  store 
Of  all  events  is  aggregated  there 
That  variegate  the  eternal  universe; 
Death  is  a  gate  of  dreariness  and  gloom. 
That  leads  to  azure  isles  and  beaming  skies. 
And  haj)})y  regions  of  eternal  hope. 
Therefore,  O  S[)irit !  fearlessly  bear  on  : 
Though  storms  may  break  the  primrose   on   its 

stalk. 
Though  frosts  may  blight   the  freshncsss  of  its 

bloom. 
Yet  spring's  awakening  breath  will  woo  the  earth. 
To  feed  with  kindliest  dews  its  favourite  flower, 
That  blooms  in  mossy  banks  and  darksome  glens, 
Lighting  the  greenwood  with  its  sunny  smile. 

Fear  not  then.  Spirit,  death's  disrobing  hand ; 
So  welcome  when  the  tyrant  is  awake. 
So  welcome  when  the  bigot's  hell-torch  burns ; 
'Tis  but  the  voj'age  of  a  darksome  hour. 
The  transient  gulf-dream  of  a  startling  sleep. 
Death  is  no  foe  to  virtue :  earth  has  seen 
Love's  brightest  roses  on  the  scaffold  bloom. 
Mingling  with  freedom's  fadeless  laurels  there, 
And  presaging  the  ti'uth  of  visioned  bliss. 
Are  there  not  hopes  within  thee,  which  this  scene 
Of  linked  and  gi-adual  being  has  confirmed  ? 
Whose  stingings  bade  thy  heart  look  further  still, 
When  to  the  moonlight  walk,  by  Henry  led, 
Sweetly  and  sadly  thou  didst  talk  of  death  1 
And  wilt  thou  rudely  tear  them  from  thy  breast, 
Listening  supinely  to  a  bigot's  creed. 
Or  tamely  crouching  to  the  tyrant's  rod, 
Whose  iron  thongs  are  red  with  human  gore  ? 
Never :  but  bravely  bearing  on,  thy  will 
Is  destined  an  eternal  war  to  wage 
With  tyranny  and  falsehood,  and  uproot 
The  germs  of  misery  from  the  human  heart. 
Thine  is  the  hand  whose  piety  would  soothe 
The  thorny  pillow  of  unhappy  crime. 
Whose  impotence  an  easy  pardon  gains. 
Watching  its  wanderings  as  a  friend's  disease : 
Thine  is  the  brow  whose  mildness  would  defy 
Its  fiercest  rage,  and  brave  its  sternest  will. 
When  fenced  by  power  and  master  of  the  world. 
Thou  art  sincere  and  good ;  of  resolute  mind, 
Free  from  heart- withering  custom's  cold  control. 
Of  passion  lofty,  pure  and  unsubdued. 
Earth's  pride  and  meanness  could  not  vanquish 

thee. 
And  therefore  art  thou  worthy  of  the  boon 
Which  thou  hast  now  received :  virtue  shall  keep 
Thy  footsteps  in  the  path  that  thou  hast  trod. 
And  many  days  of  beaming  hope  shall  bless 
Thy  spotless  life  of  sweet  and  .sacred  love. 
Go,  happy  one  !  and  give  that  bosom  joy. 
Whose  sleepless  spirit  waits  to  catch 
Light,  life  and  rapture  from  thy  smile. 

The  Fairy  waves  her  wand  of  charm. 
Speechless  with  bliss  the  Spirit  mounts  the  car. 

That  rolled  beside  the  battlement, 
Bending  her  beamy  eyes  in  thankfulness. 

Again  the  enchanted  steeds  were  yoked. 

Again  the  burning  wheels  inflame 


36 


NOTES    ON    QUEEN    MAB. 


Snufled  the  gross  air,  and  then,  tlicir  errand  done, 
Unfurled  their  pinions  to  the  winds  of  heaveji. 

The  Body  and  the  Soul  united  then ; 
A  gentle  start  convulsed  lantlie's  frame : 
Her  veiny  eyelids  quietly  unclosed ; 
Moveless  awhile  the  dark  blue  orbs  remained : 
She  looked  around  in  wonder,  and  beheld 
Henry,  who  kneeled  in  silence  by  her  couch, 
Watching   her    sleep   wuth   looks  of  speechless 
love. 
And  the  bright  beaming  stars 
That  through  the  casement  shone. 


The  steep  descent  of  heaven's  untrodden  way. 
Fast  and  far  the  chariot  flew : 
The  vast  and  fiery  globes  that  rolled 
Around  the  Fairy's  palace-gate 
Lessened  by  slow  degrees,  and  soon  appeared 
Such  tiny  twinklers  as  the  planet  orbs 
That  there  attendant  on  the  solar  power 
With  borrowed  light  pursued  their  nEirrovver  way. 

Earth  floated  then  below: 
The  chariot  paused  a  moment  there ; 
The  Spirit  then  descended  : 
The  restless  coui'sers  pawed  the  ungcnial  soil, 


NOTES. 


P.  19,  col.  2,  1.  4. 

The  sun's  unclouded  orb 

Rolled  through  the  black  concave. 
Beyond  our  atmosphere  the  sun  would  appear 
a  rayless  orb  of  fire  in  tlie  midst  of  a  black  con- 
cave. The  equal  diffusion  of  its  light  on  earth  is 
owing  to  the  refraction  of  the  rays  by  the  atmo- 
sphere, and  their  reflection  from  other  bodies. 
Light  consists  either  of  vibrations  propagated 
through  a  subtle  medium,  or  of  numerous  minute 
particles  repelled  in  all  directions  from  the  lumi- 
nous body.  Its  velocity  greatly  exceeds  that  of 
any  substance  with  which  we  are  acquainted :  ob- 
servations on  the  eclipses  of  Jupiter's  satellites 
have  demonstrated  that  light  takes  up  no  more 
than  8'  7"  in  passing  from  the  sun  to  the  earth,  a 
distance  of  95,000,000  miles. — Some  idea  may  be 
gained  of  the  immense  distance  of  the  fixed  stars, 
when  it  is  computed  that  many  years  would  elapse 
before  light  could  reach  this  earth  from  the  nearest 
of  them  ;  yet  in  one  year  light  travels  5,422,400,- 
000,000  miles,  which  is  a  distance  5,707,600  times 
greater  than  that  of  the  sun  from  the  earth. 
P.  19  col.  2,1.  14. 

Whilst  round  the  chariot's  Kay 

Innumerable  systems  rolled. 

The  plurality  of  worlds, — the  indefinite  im- 
mensity of  the  universe, — is  a  most  awful  subject 
of  contenifilation.  He  who  rightly  feels  its  mys- 
tery and  grandeur  is  in  no  danger  of  seduction 
from  the  falsehoods  of  religious  systems,  or  of  dei- 
fying the  i)rinciple  of  the  universe.  It  is  impo.s- 
sible  to  believe  that  the  Spirit  that  pervades  this 
infinite  machine  begat  a  son  upon  the  body  of  a 
Jewish  woman,  or  is  angered  at  the  consequences 
of  that  necessity  which  is  a  synonyme  of  itself. 
All  that  miserable  tale  of  the  Devil,  and  Eve,  and 
an  Intercessor,  with  the  childish  mummeries  of 
the  God  of  the  Jews,  is  irreconeileable  with  the 
knowledge  of  the  stars.  The  works  of  his  fingers 
have  borne  witness  against  him. 

The  nearest  of  the  fixed  stars  is  inconceivably 
distant  from  the  earth,  and  they  are  probably  pro- 
portionably  distant  from  each  other.  By  a  calcu- 
lation of  the  velocity  of  light,  Syrius  is  supposed 
to  be  at  least  54,224,000,000,000  miles  from  the 


earth.*  That  which  appears  only  like  a  thin  and 
silvery  cloud,  streaking  the  heaven,  is  in  effect 
composed  of  innumerable  clusters  of  suns,  each 
shining  with  its  own  light,  and  illuminating  num- 
bers of  planets  that  revolve  around  them.  Mil- 
lions and  millions  of  suns  are  ranged  around  us, 
all  attended  by  innumerable  worlds,  yet  calm,  regu- 
lar, and  harmonious,  all  keeping  the  paths  of  im- 
mutable necessity. 

P.  25,  col.  1, 1.  38. 

These  are  the  hired  bravois  icho  defend 
The  tyrant's  throne. 

To  employ  murder  as  a  means  of  justice,  is  an 
idea  which  a  man  of  an  enlightened  mind  will  not 
dwell  upon  with  pleasure.  To  march  forth  in 
rank  and  file,  and  all  the  pomp  of  streamers  and 
trumpets,  for  the  purpose  of  shooting  at  our  fellow- 
men  as  a  rhark ;  to  inflict  upon  them  all  the  variety 
of  wound  and  anguish ;  to  leave  them  weltering 
in  their  blood ;  to  wander  over  the  field  of  deso- 
lation, and  count  the  number  of  the  dying  and 
the  dead, — are  employments  which  in  thesis  we 
may  maintain  to  be  necessary,  but  which  no  good 
man  will  contemplate  with  gratulation  and  delight. 
A  battle  we  suppose  is  won  : — thus  truth  is  esta- 
blished, thus  the  cause  of  justice  is  confirmed  !  It 
surely  requires  no  common  sagacity  to  discern  the 
connexion  between  tliis  immense  heap  of  calami- 
tics  and  the  assertion  of  truth  or  the  maintenance 
of  justice. 

Kings,  and  ministers  of  state,  the  real  authors 
of  the  calamity,  sit  unmolested  in  their  cabinet, 
while  those  against  whom  the  fury  of  the  storm  is 
directed  are,  for  the  mo.st  part,  persons  who  have 
been  trepanned  into  the  service,  or  who  are  dragged 
unwillingly  from  their  peaceful  homes  into  the 
field  of  battle.  A  soldier  is  a  man  whose  business 
it  is  to  kill  those  who  never  offended  him,  and  who 
arc  the  innocent  martyrs  of  other  men's  iniquities. 
Whatever  may  become  of  the  abstract  question  of 
the  justifiableness  of  war,  it  seems  impossible  that 
the  soldier  should  not  be  a  depraved  and  unnatural 
being. 

To  these  more  serious  and  momentous  considc- 

*See  Nicliolson's  Encyclopedia,  art.  Light. 


NOTES    ON    QUEEN    MAB. 


37 


rations  it  may-be  proper  to  add  a  recollection  of 
the  ridiculousness  of  the  military  character.  Its 
first  constituent  is  obedience ;  a  soldier  is,  of  all 
description  of  men,  the  most  completely  a  machine ; 
yet  his  profession  inevitably  teaches  him  something 
of  dogmatism,  swaggering,  and  self-consequence  : 
he  is  lilvc  the  puppet  of  a  showman,  who,  at  the 
very  time  he  is  made  to  strut  and  swell,  and  dis- 
play the  most  farcical  airs,  we  perfectly  know  can- 
not assume  the  most  insignificant  gesture,  advance 
either  to  the  right  or  to  the  left,  but  as  he  is  moved 
by  his  exhibitor. —  Godwrn's  Inquirer,  Essay.  V, 
I  will  here  subjoin  a  little  poem,  so  strongly  ex- 
pressive of  my  abhorrence  of  despotism  and  lalse- 
hood,  that  I  fear  lest  it  never  again  may  be  depic- 
tured so  vividly.  This  opportunity  is  perhaps  the 
only  one  that  ever  will  occur  of  rescuing  it  from 
oblivion. 


FALSEHOOD  AND  VICE. 

A  DIALOGUE. 

Whilst  monarchs  laughed  upon  their  thrones 
To  hear  a  famished  nation's  groans, 
And  hugged  the  wealth  wi'ung  from  the  wo 
That  makes  its  eyes  and  veins  o'erflow, — 
Those  thrones,  high  built  upon  the  heaps 
Of  bones  where  frenzied  famine  sleeps. 
Where  slavery  wields  her  scourge  of  iron, 
Red  with  mankind's  unheeded  gore. 
And  wars  mad  fiends  the  seen?  environ, 
Mingling  with  shrieks  a  drunken  roar, 
There  Vice  and  Falsehood  took  their  stand, 
High  raised  above  tli'  unhappy  land. 

FALSEHOOD. 

Brother !  arise  from  the  dainty  fare 

Which  thousands  have  toiled  and  bled  to  bestow ; 

A  finer  feast  for  thy  hungry  ear 

Is  the  news  that  I  bring  of  human  wo. 

TICE. 

And,  secret  one !  what  hast  thou  done. 
To  compare,  in  thy  tumid  pride,  with  me  1 
I,  whose  career,  through  the  blasted  year, 
Has  been  tracked  by  despair  and  agony. 

EALSEIIOOD. 

What  have  I  done  T — I  have  torn  the  robe 
From  baby  Truth's  unsheltered  form, 
And  round  the  desolated  globe 
Borne  safely  the  bewildering  charm : 
My  tyrant-slaves  to  a  dungeon-floor 
Have  bound  the  fearless  innocent. 
And  streams  of  fertilizing  gore 
Flow  from  her  bosom's  hideous  rent. 
Which  this  unfiiiling  dagger  gave  .... 
I  dread  that  blood  ! — -no  more — this  day 
Is  ours,  though  her  eternal  ray 
Must  shine  upon  our  grave. 
Yet  know,  proud  Vice,  had  I  not  given 
To  thee  the  robe  I  stole  from  heaven, 
Thy  shape  of  ugliness  and  fear 
Had  never  gained  admission  here. 


And  know  that,  had  I  disdained  to  toil. 
But  sate  in  my  lonesome  cave  the  while, 
And  ne'er  to  these  hateful  sons  of  heaven 
Gold,  jion-akciiy,  and  muuder,  given; 
Hadst  thou  with  all  thine  art  essayed 
One  of  thy  games  then  to  have  played, 
With  all  thine  overweening  boast. 
Falsehood,  I  tell  thee  thou  hast  lost ! — 
Yet  wherefore  this  dispute  ] — wc  tend, 
Fraternal,  to  one  common  end ; 
In  this  cold  grave  beneath  my  feet 
Will  our  hopes,  our  fears,  and  our  labours  meet. 

falsehood. 

I  brought  my  daughter,  religion',  on  earth ; 

She  smothered  Reason's  babes  in  their  birth ; 

But  dreaded  their  mother's  eye  severe, — 

So  the  crocodile  slunk  off  slily  in  fear. 

And  loosed  her  bloodhounds  from  the  den  .... 

They  started  from  dreams  of  slaughtered  men, 

And,  by  the  light  of  her  poison  eye. 

Did  her  work  o'er  the  wide  earth  frightfully ; 

The  dreadful  stench  of  her  torches'  flare, 

Fed  with  human  fat,  polluted  the  air : 

The  curses,  the  shrieks,  the  ceaseless  cries 

Of  the  many  mingling  miseries, 

As  on  she  trod,  ascended  high 

And  trumpeted  my  victorj' ! — 

Brother,  tell  what  thou  hast  done. 


I  have  extinguished  the  noonday  sun 

In  the  carnage-smoke  of  battles  won : 

Famine,  murder,  hell,  and  power. 

Were  glutted  in  that  glorious  hour, 

Which  searchless  fate  had  stamped  for  me 

With  the  seal  of  her  security  .... 

For  the  bloated  wretch  on  yonder  throne 

Commanded  the  bloody  fi^ay  to  rise — ■ 

Like  me,  he  joj^ed  at  the  stifled  moan 

Wrung  from  a  nation's  miseries; 

While  the  snakes,  whose  slime  even  him  defiled, 

In  ecstacies  of  malice  smiled : 

They  thought  'twas  theirs, — but  mine  the  deed ! 

Theirs  is  the  toil,  but  mine  the  meed — 

Ten  thousand  victims  madly  bleed. 

They  dream  that  tyrants  goad  them  there 

With  poisonous  war  to  taint  the  air: 

These  tyrants,  on  their  beds  of  thorn. 

Swell  with  the  thoughts  of  murderous  fame, 

And  with  their  gains  to  lift  my  name. 

Restless  they  plan  from  night  to  morn : 

I — I  do  all ;  without  my  aid 

Thy  daughter,  that  relentless  maid, 

Could  never  o'er  a  death-bed  urge 

The  fury  of  her  venonied  scourge. 

FALSEHOOD. 

Brother,  well ! — the  world  is  ours : 
And  whether  thou  or  I  have  won. 
The  pestilence  expectant  lowers 
On  all  beneath  yon  blasted  sun. 
Our  joys,  our  toils,  our  honours  meet 
In  the  milk-white  and  wormy  winding-sheet ; 
u 


38 


NOTES    ON    QUEEN    MAB. 


A  short-lived  hope,  unceasing  care, 
Some  heartless  scraps  of  godly  prayer, 
A  moody  curse,  and  a  frenzied  sleep 
Ere  gapes  the  grave's  unclosing  deep, 
A  tyrant's  dream,  a  coward's  start, 
That  ice  that  clings  to  a  priestly  heart, 
A  judge's  frown,  a  courtier's  smile, 
Make  the  great  vvliole  for  vvliich  we  toil ; 
And,  brother,  whether  thou  or  I 
Have  done  the  work  of  misery, 
It  little  boots :  thy  toil  and  pain. 
Without  my  aid,  were  more  than  vain ; 
And  but  for  thee  I  ne'er  had  sate 
The  guardian  of  heaven's  palace  gate. 
P.  26,  col.  1, 1.  2. 
Thus  do  the  generations  of  the  earth 
Go  to  the  grave  and  issue  from  the  womb. 

"  One  generation  passcth  away  and  another  ge- 
neration cometh,  but  tlie  earth  abidcth  for  ever. 
The  sun  also  ariseth  and  the  sun  goeth  down,  and 
hasteth  to  his  place  where  he  arose.  The  wind 
goeth  toward  the  south,  and  turneth  about  unto 
the  north ;  it  whirleth  about  continually,  and  the 
wind  returneth  again  according  to  his  circuits. 
All  the  rivers  run  into  the  sea,  yet  the  sea  is  not 
full ;  unto  the  place  whence  the  rivers  come,  thi- 
ther shall  they  return  again." — Ecdesiastes,  chap.  i. 
P.  26,  col.  1, 1.6. 

Even  as  the  leaves 
Which  the  keen  frost-wind  of  the  waning  year 
Has  scattered  on  the  forest  soil. 
OIti  TTtp  <pi\\biv  yefsh,  TOiijSs  Koi  di'lfnov. 
<t>iiXXa  TO  nh  T  avi.^o;  xa/ju(5(j  xki,  iiWa  it  &  vki] 
TriXttiouiaa  (pier  t'upo;  6'  tiriyu'Srai  (oprj. 
"iic  dvcpoiv  •Ai'ch,  h  ft"  4>i!^h  '1^'  dmX^/yci. 

lAlAA.  Z'.  1.  14o. 

P.  2G,  col.  1,1.  59. 
The  mob  of  peasants,  nobles,  priests,  and  kings. 
Suave,  mari  magno  turbantibus  sequora  ventis, 
E  terra  magnum  alterius  spectare  laborem  : 
Non,  quia  ve.xari  quemquam  'st  jocunda  voluptas, 
Sed,  quibus  ipse  malis  careas,  quia  cernere  suave  'st 
Per  campos  instrucla,  tua  sine  parte  pericli. 
Suave  etiam  belli  certamina  magna  tueri : 
Ped  nil  dulcius  est,  bene  quam  munita  tenere, 
Edita  doctrina  sapientmn  templa  serena  ; 
Despicere  unde  queas  alios,  passimque  videre 
Errare,  atque  viam  palanteis  qucerere  viIee 
Certare  ingenio  ;  contendere  nobilitate, 
Nocteis  alque  dies  niti  praestante  lal)ore 
Ad  summas  emergere  opes,  rerumque  potiri. 
O  miseras  hominum  menleis;  O  pectora  csaca! 

Lucret.  lib.  ii. 
P.  26,  col.  2,  1.  31. 
.4«(Z  statesmen  boast  ] 
Of  wealth ! 

There  is  no  real  wealth  but  the  labour  of  man. 
Were  the  mountains  of  gold  and  the  valleys  of 
silver,  the  world  would  not  be  one  grain  of  corn 
the  richer ;  no  one  comfort  would  be  added  to  the 
human  race.  In  consequence  of  our  consideration 
for  the  jirecious  metals,  one  man  is  enabled  to 
heap  to  himself  luxuries  at  the  expense  of  the 
'  ncces.saries  of  his  neighbour ;  a  system  admirably 
fitted  to  produce  all  the  varieties  of  disease  and 
crime,  which  never  fail  to  characterize  the  two 


extremes  of  opulence  and  penurj'.  A  speculator 
takes  pride  to  himself  as  the  promoter  of  his  coun- 
try's prosperity,  who  enijilovs  a  number  of  hands 
in  the  manufacture  of  articles  avowedly  destitute 
of  use,  or  subservient  only  to  the  uidiallowed 
cravings  of  luxury  and  ostentation.  Tiie  noble- 
man who  employs  the  peasants  of  his  nciglibour- 
hood  in  building  his  palaces,  until  "jam  pinica 
aratro  juircra,  reirice  moles  rcllnqiieiii"  liatters 
himself  that  he  has  gained  the  title  of  a  patriot  by 
yielding  to  the  impulses  of  vanity.  The  show  and 
pomp  of  courts  adduce  the  same  apology  for  their 
continuance ;  and  many  a  fete  has  been  given, 
many  a  woman  has  eclipsed  her  beauty  by  her 
dress,  to  benefit  the  labouring  poor  and  to  en- 
courage trado.  Who  does  not  see  that  this  is  a 
remedy  which  aggravates,  whilst  it  palliates,  the 
countless  di.scascs  of  society  ]  The  poor  are  set 
to  labour, — for  what?  Not  the  food  for  which 
tliey  famish :  not  the  blankets  for  want  of  which 
their  babes  are  frozen  by  the  cold  of  their  miser- 
able hovels :  not  those  comforts  of  civilization 
without  which  civilized  man  is  far  more  miserable 
than  the  meanest  savage ;  oppressed  as  he  is  by 
all  its  insidious  evils,  w-ithin  tlie  daily  and  taunt- 
ing prospect  of  its  innumerable  benefits  assiduously 
exhibited  before  him  : — no  ;  for  the  pride  of  power, 
for  the  miserable  isolation  of  pride,  for  th6  false 
pleasures  of  the  hundredth  part  of  society.  No 
greater  evidence  is  afl'orded  of  tlie  wide-extended 
and  radical  mistakes  of  civilized  man  than  this 
fact:  those  arts  which  are  essential  to  his  very 
being  are  held  in  the  greatest  contempt ;  em])loy- 
ments  are  lucrative  in  an  inverse  ratio  to  their 
usefulness  :*  the  jeweller,  the  toyman,  the  actor, 
gains  fame  and  wealth  by  the  exercise  of  his  use- 
less and  ridiculous  art;  whilst  the  cultivator  of 
the  earth,  he  without  whom  society  must  cease  to 
subsist,  struggles  through  contempt  and  penury, 
and  perishes  by  that  famine  which,  but  for  his  un- 
ceasing exertion,  would  anniliilate  the  rest  of 
mankind. 

I  will  not  insult  common  sense  by  insisting  on 
the  doctrine  of  the  natural  equality  of  man.  The 
question  is  not  concerning  its  desirableness,  but 
its  j)racticability ;  so  far  as  it  is  practicable,  it  is 
desirable.  That  state  of  human  society  which 
approaches  nearer  to  an  equal  partition  of  its  bene- 
fits and  evils  should,  casieris paribus,  he  preferred; 
but  so  long  as  we  conceive  that  a  wanton  cxj)en- 
diture  of  human  labour,  not  for  the  necessities,  not 
even  for  the  luxuries,  of  the  mass  of  society,  but 
for  the  egotism  and  ostentation  of  a  few  of  its 
members,  is  defensible  on  the  ground  of  public 
justice,  so  long  we  neglect  to  approximate  to  the 
redemption  of  the  human  race. 

Labour  is  rei}uired  for  physical,  and  leisure  for 
moral  improvement :  from  the  former  of  these  ad- 
vantages the  rich,  and  from  the  latter  the  poor,  by 
the  inevitable  conditions  of  their  respective  situa- 
tions, are  precluded.  A  state  which  should  com- 
bine the  advantages  of  both  would  be  subjected  to 
the  evils  of  neither.     He  that  is  deficient  in  firm 

*  See  Rousseau,  "  De  I'Infegalite  parmi  les  Horames, 

note  7. 


NOTES    ON    QUEEN    MAB. 


39 


health,  or  ^^g•orous  intellect,  is  but  half  a  man ; 
hence  it  follows,  that,  to  subject  the  liibourinii 
classes  to  unnecessary  labour,  is  wantonly  to  de- 
prive them  of  any  opportunities  of  intellectual  im- 
provement: and  that  the  rich  arc  heapint^  up  for 
tiieir  own  mischief  the  disease,  lassitude,  and 
ennui,  by  which  their  existence  is  rendered  an 
intoleralile  burden. 

English  reformers  exclaim  a2;ainst  sinecures, — 
but  the  true  pension  list  is  the  rent-roll  of  the 
landed  proprietors  :  wealth  is  a  power  usurped  by 
the  few,  to  compel  the  many  to  labour  for  their 
benefit..  The  laws  which  support  this  system  de- 
rive their  force  from  the  ignorance  and  credulity 
of  its  victims :  they  are  the  result  of  a  conspiracy 
of  the  few  against  tlie  many,  who  are  themselves 
obliged  to  purchase  tliis  pre-eminence  by  the  loss 
of  all  real  comfort.  C^ 

The  commodities  that  substantially  contribute 
to  the  subsistence  of  the  human  species  form  a 
very  short  catalogue :  they  demand  from  us  but  a 
slender  portion  of  industry.  If  these  only  were 
produced,  and  sufficiently  produced,  the  species  of 
man  would  be  continued.  If  the  labour  necessarily 
required  to  produce  them  were  equitably  divided 
among  the  poor,  and,  still  more,  if  it  were  equitably 
divided  among  all,  each  man's  share  of  labour 
would  be  light,  and  his  portion  of  leisure  would  be 
ample.  There  was  a  time  when  this  leisure  would 
have  been  of  small  comparative  value :  it  is  to  be 
hoped  that  the  time  will  come  when  it  will  be  ap- 
phed  to  the  most  important  purposes.  Those 
hours,  which  are  not  required  for  the  production 
of  the  necessaries  of  life,  may  be  devoted  to  the 
cultivation  of  the  understanding,  the  enlargement 
of  our  stock  of  knowledge,  the  refinement  of  our 
taste,  and  thus  open  to  us  new  and  more  exquisite 
sources  of  enjoyment. 

******* 
It  was  perhaps  necessary  that  a  period  of  mo- 
nopoly and  oppression  should  subsist,  before  a 
period  of  cultivated  equality  could  subsist.  Sav- 
ages perhaps  would  never  have  been  excited  to 
the  discovery  of  truth  and  the  invention  of  art,  but 
by  the  narrow  motives  which  such  a  period  afibrds. 
But,  surely,  after  the  savage  state  has  ceased,  and 
men  have  set  out  in  the  glorious  career  of  disco- 
very and  invention,  monopoly  and  oppression 
cannot  be  necessary  to  prevent  them  from  return- 
ing to  a  state  of  barbarism. — Goihviiis  Inquirer, 
Essay  II.  See  also  Pul.  Jus.  hook  viii.  chap.  11. 
It  is  a  calculation  of  this  admirable  author,  that 
all  the  conveniences  ot  civilized  life  might  be  pro- 
duced, if  society  would  divide  the  labour  equally 
among  its  members,  by  each  individual  being  em- 
ployed in  labour  two  hours  during  the  day. 

P.  26,  col.  2,  I.  50. 

Or  religinn 
Drires  hi.s  wife  raving  mad. 

I  am  acquainted  with  a  lady  of  considerable 
accomplishments,  and  the  mother  of  a  numerous 
family,  whom  the  Christian  religion  has  goaded 
to  incurable  insanity.  A  parallel  case  is,  I  believe, 
within  the  experience  of  every  physician. 


N;im.iam  sirpe  homines  patriatii,  carosfnie  parcntes 
Prudiilerunt,  vitare  Acherusia  ternpla  petciites. 

Lucretius. 

P.  27,  col.  1, 1.  61. 

Even  love  is  sold. 

Not  even  the  intercourse  of  the  sexes  is  exempt 
from  the  despotism  of  positive  institution.  Law 
pretends  even  to  govern  the  indiscijjlinable  wan- 
derings of  passion,  to  put  fetters  on  the  clearest 
deductions  of  reason,  and,  by  appeals  to  the  will, 
to  subdue  the  involuntary  allections  of  our  nature. 
Love  is  inevitably  consequent  upon  the  percej)- 
tion  of  loveliness.  Love  withers  under  constraint : 
its  very  essence  is  liberty :  it  is  compatible  nei- 
ther with  obedience,  jealousy,  nor  fear  :  it  is  there 
most  pure,  perfect,  and  unlimited,  where  its  vota- 
ries live  in  confidence,  equality,  and  unreserve. 

How  long  then  ought  the  sexual  connexion  to 
last]  what  law  ought  to  specify  the  extent  of  the 
grievances  which  should  limit  its  duration  ]  A 
husband  and  wife  ought  to  continue  so  long  united 
as  they  love  each  other :  any  law,  wliich  should 
bind  them  to  cohabitation  for  one  moment  after 
the  decay  of  their  atfection,  would  be  a  most 
intolerable  tyranny,  and  the  most  unworthy  of 
toleration.  How  odious  a  usurpation  of  the  right 
of  private  judgment  should  that  law  be  considered 
which  should  make  the  tics  of  friendship  indisso- 
luble, in  spite  of  the  caprices,  the  inconstancy,  the 
fallibility,  and  capacity  for  improvement  of  the 
human  mind  1  And  by  so  much  would  the  fet- 
ters of  love  be  heavier  and  more  unendurable  than 
tho.se  of  friend.ship,  as  love  is  more  vehement  and 
capricious,  more  dependent  on  those  delicate  pecu- 
liarities of  imagination,  and  less  capable  of  reduc- 
tion to  the  ostensible  merits  of  the  object. 

The  state  of  society  in  which  we  exist  is  a 
mixture  of  feudal  savageness  and  imperfect  civili- 
zation. The  narrow  and  unenlightened  morality 
of  the  Christian  religion  is  an  aggravation  of  these 
evils.  It  is  not  even  until  lately  that  mankind 
have  admitted  that  happiness  is  the  sole  end  of 
the  science  of  ethics,  as  of  all  other  sciences ;  and 
that  the  fanatical  idea  of  mortifying  the  flesh  for 
the  love  of  God  has  been  discarded.  I  have 
heard,  indeed,  an  ignorant  collegian  adduce,  in 
favour  of  Christianity,  its  hostihty  to  every  worldly 
feeling  !* 

But  if  happiness  be  the  object  of  morality,  of 
all  human  unions  and  disunions ;  if  the  worthiness 
of  every  action  is  to  be  estimated  by  the  quantity 
of  pleasurable  sensation  it  is  calculated  to  pro- 
duce, then  the  connexion  of  the  sexes  is  so  long 
sacred  as  it  contributes  to  the  comfort  of  the  par- 

*  The  first  Christian  emperor  made  a  law  by  which 

seduction  was  puni.shcd  with  death:  if  the  female 
pleaded  her  own  consent,  she  also  was  punl:'hed  with 
death;  if  the  parents  endeavoured  to  screen  the  crimi- 
nals, they  were  banished  and  their  estates  confiscated  ; 
the  slaves  who  miiiht  be  accessory  were  burned  alive, 
or  forced  to  swallow  nielled  lead.  The  very  ofisprinff 
of  an  illegal  love  were  involved  in  the  consequences  of 
the  sentence. —  Gibbon's  Decline  and  Full,  &.C.,  vol.  ii. 
page  210.  See  also,  for  the  hatred  of  the  primitive 
Christians  to  love,  and  even  marriage,  page  269. 


40 


NOTES    ON    QUEEN    MAB. 


tics,  and  is  naturally  dissolved  when  its  evils  are 
greater  than  its  benefits.  There  is  nothing  im- 
moral in  this  separation.  Constancy  has  nothing 
virtuous  in  itself",  independently  of  the  pleasure  it 
confers,  and  partakes  of  the  temporizing  spirit  of 
vice  in  proportion  as  it  endures  tamely  moral  de- 
fects of  magnitude  in  the  object  of  its  indiscreet 
choice.  Love  is  free :  to  promise  for  ever  to  love 
the  same  woman,  is  not  less  absurd  than  to  pro- 
mise to  believe  the  same  creed  :  such  a  vow,  in 
both  cases,  excludes  us  from  all  inq^uiry.  The 
language  of  the  votarist  is  this :  The  woman  I 
now  love  may  be  infinitely  inferior  to  many  others; 
the  creed  I  now  profess  may  be  a  mass  of  errors 
and  absurdities;  but  I  exclude  myself  from  all 
future  information  as  to  the  amiability  of  the  one 
and  the  truth  of  the  other,  resolving  blindly,  and 
in  spite  of  conviction,  to  adhere  to  them.  Is  this 
the  language  of  delicacy  and  reason  1  Is  the  love 
of  such  a  frigid  heart  of  more  worth  than  its 
belief] 

The  present  system  of  constraint  does  no  more, 
in  the  majority  of  instances,  than  make  hypocrites 
or  open  enemies.  Persons  of  delicacy  and  -sirtue, 
unhappily  united  to  those  whom  they  find  it  im- 
possible to  love,  spend  the  loveliest  season  of  their 
life  in  unproductive  eiforts  to  appear  otherwise 
than  they  are,  for  the  sake  of  the  feelings  of  their 
partner,  or  the  welfare  of  their  mutual  oflspring : 
those  of  less  generosity  and  refinement  openly 
avow  their  disappouitment,  and  linger  out  the 
remnant  of  that  union,  which  only  death  can  dis- 
solve, in  a  state  of  incurable  bickering  and  hosti- 
lity. The  early  education  of  the  children  takes 
its  colour  from  the  squabbles  of  the  parents ;  they 
are  nursed  in  a  systematic  school  of  ill  humour, 
violence,  and  falsehood.  Had  they  been  sutTcred 
to  part  at  the  moment  when  indilference  rendered 
their  union  irLsomc,  they  would  have  been  spared 
many  years  of  misery  ;  they  would  have  connected 
themselves,  more  suitably,  and  would  have  found 
that  happiness  in  the  society  of  more  congenial 
partners  which  is  for  ever  denied  them  by  the  des- 
potism of  marriage.  They  would  have  been  sepa- 
rately useful  and  happy  members  of  society,  who, 
whilst  united,  were  miserable,  and  rendered 
misanthropical  by  misery.  The  conviction  that 
wedlock  is  indissoluble,  holds  out  the  strongest  of 
all  temptations  to  the  perverse :  they  uidulge 
without  restraint  in  acrimony,  and  all  the  little 
tyrannies  of  domestic  life,  when  they  know  that 
their  victim  is  without  ajipcal.  If  this  connection 
were  put  on  a  rational  basis,  each  would  be 
assured  that  habitual  ill  temper  would  terminate 
in  separation,  and  would  check  this  vicious  and 
dangerous  propensity. 

Prostitution  is  the  legitimate  offspring  of  mar- 
riage and  its  accompanying  errors.  Women,  for 
no  other  crime  than  having  followed  the  dictates 
of  a  natural  appetite,  are  driven  with  fury  from 
the  comforts  and  sympathies  of  society.  It  is  less 
venial  than  murder:  and  the  punishment  which 
is  inflicted  on  her  who  destroys  her  child  to 
escape  rL'jirnach,  is  lighter  than  the  life  of  agony 
and  disease  to  which  the  prostitute  is  irrecoverably 


doomed.  Has  a  woman  obeyed  the  impulse  of 
unerring  nature  1 — society  declares  war  against 
her,  pitiless  and  eternal  war :  she  must  be  the  tame 
slave,  she  must  make  no  reprisals ;  theirs  is  the 
right  of  persecution,  hers  the  duty  of  endurance. 
She  lives  a  life  of  infani}' :  the  loud  and  bitter 
laugh  of  scorn  scares  her  from  all  return.  She 
dies  of  long  and  lingering  disease ;  yet  she  is  in 
fault,  she  is  the  criminal,  she  the  froward  and  un- 
tameable  child, — and  society,  forsooth,  the  ])ure 
and  virtuous  matron  who  casts  her  as  an  abortion 
from  her  undcfiled  bosom  !  Society  avenges  her- 
self on  the  criminals  of  her  own  creation ;  she  is 
employed  in  anathematizing  the  vice  to-dav,  which 
yesterday  she  was  the  most  zealous  to  teach. 
Thus  is  formed  one-tenth  of  the  population  of 
London  :  meanwhile  the  evil  is  twofold.  Young 
men,  excluded  by  the  fanatical  idea  of  chastity 
from  the  society  of  modest  and  accomplished  wo-» 
men,  asssociatc  with  these  vicious  and  miserable 
beings, — destroying  thereby  all  those  exquisite  and 
delicate  sensibilitcs  whose  existence  cold-hearted 
worldlings  have  denied  ;  annihilating  all  genuine 
passion,  and  debasing  that  to  a  selfish  feeling  which 
is  the  excess  of  generosity  and  dcvotedness.  Their 
body  and  mind  alike  crumble  into  a  hideous  wreck 
of  humanity ;  idiotcy  and  disease  become  per- 
petuated in  their  miserable  offspring,  and  distant 
generations  suffer  for  the  bigoted  morality  of  their 
forefathers.  Chastity  is  a  monkish  and  evangeli- 
cal superstition,  a  greater  foe  to  natural  temperance 
even  than  iiiiintellectual  sensuality ;  it  strikes  at 
the  root  of  all  domestic  happihess,  ami  consigns 
more  than  half  the  human  race  to  misery,  that 
some  few  may  monopolise  according  to  law.  A 
system  could  not  well  have  been  devised  more 
studiously  hostile  to  human  happiness  than  mar- 
riage. 

I  conceive  that,  from  the  abolition  of  marriage, 
the  fit  and  natural  arrangement  of  sexual  con- 
nexion would  result  I  by  no  means  assert  that 
the  intercourse  would  be  promiscuous :  on  the 
contrary,  it  appears,  from  the  relation  of  parent  to 
child,  tliat  this  union  is  generally  of  long  duration, 
and  marked  above  all  others  with  generosity  and 
self-devotion.  13ut  this  is  a  subject  which  it  is 
perhaps  premature  to  discuss.  That  which  will 
result  from  the  abolition  of  marriage,  will  be  na- 
tural and  right,  because  choice  and  change  will  be 
exempted  from  restraint. 

In  fact,  religion  and  morality,  as  they  now  stand, 
compose  a  practical  code  of  misery  and  servitude: 
the  genius  of  human  happiness  must  tear  every 
leaf  from  the  accursed  book  of  God,  ere  man  can 
read  the  inscrijition  on  his  heart.  How  would 
morality,  dressed  uji  in  stiff  stays  and  finery,  start 
from  her  own  disgusting  image,  should  she  look 
in  the  mirror  of  nature  ! 

P.  28,  col.  1,1  54. 
To  the  r(d  and  baleful  sun 
That  fuiiithj  ticinklea  there. 

The  north  polar  star,  to  which  the  axis  of  the 
earth,  in  its  present  state  of  obliquity,  points.  It 
is  exceedingly  probable,  from  many  considerations, 
that  this  obliquity  will  gradually  diminish,  until  the 


NOTES    ON    QUEEN    MAB. 


41 


equator  coincides  with  the  ecliptic  :  the  nights  and 
days  will  then  become  equal  on  the  earth  through- 
out the  year,  and  probably  the  seasons  also.  There 
is  no  greater  extravagance  in  presuming  that  the 
progress  of  the  perpendicularity  of  the  poles  may 
bo  as  rapid  as  the  progress  of  intellect ;  or  that 
there  should  be  a  perfect  identity  between  the 
moral  and  jihysical  improvement  of  the  human 
species.  It  is  certain  that  wisdom  is  not  compati- 
ble with  disease,  and  that,  in  the  present  state  of 
the  climates  of  the  earth,  health,  in  the  true  aiid 
comprehensive  sense  of  the  word,  is  out  of  the 
reach  of  civilized  man.  Astronomy  teaches  us 
that  the  earth  is  now  in  its  progress,  and  that  the 
poles  are  every  year  becoming  more  and  more  per- 
pendicular to  the  ecliptic.  The  strong  evidence 
aiforded  by  the  history  of  mythology  and  geolo- 
gical researches,  that  some  event  of  this  nature  has 
taken  place  already,  alfords  a  strong  presumption 
that  this  progress  is  not  merely  an  oscillation,  as 
has  been  surmised  by  some  late  astronomers.* 
Bones  of  animals  peculiar  to  the  torrid  zone  have 
been  found  in  the  north  of  Siberia,  and  on  the 
banks  of  the  river  Ohio.  Plants  have  been  found 
in  the  fossil  state  in  the  interior  of  Germany, 
which  demand  the  present  climate  of  Hiu'dostan 
for  their  production.f  The  researches  of  M.  Bail- 
lyj  establish  the  existence  of  a  people  who  inha- 
bited a  tract  in  Tartary  49°  north  latitude,  of 
greater  antiquity  than  either  the  Indians,  the  Clii- 
nese,  or  the  Chaldeans,  from  whom  these  nations 
derived  their  sciences  and  theology.  We  find, 
from  the  testimony  of  ancicntwritcrs,  that  Britain, 
Germany,  and  France,  were  much  colder  than  at 
present,  and  that  their  great  rivers  were  annually 
firozen  over.  Astronomy  teaches  us  also,  that 
since  this  period  the  obliquity  of  the  earth's  posi- 
tion has  been  considerably  diminished.  I^^ 
P.  29,  col.  1, 1.  59. 
JVo  atom,  of  this  turbulence  fulfils 
A  vague  and  unnecessitaled  task. 
Or  acts  but  as  it  must  and  ouglit  to  act. 

Deux  cxemples  scrviront  a  nous  rendre  plus 
sensible  le  principe  qui  vient  d'etre  pose ;  nous 
emprunterons  Tun  du  physique  et  I'autre  du  moral. 
Dans  un  tourbillon  de  poussiere  qu'elcve  un  vent 
impetueux,  quclque  confus  qu'il  paroisse  a  nos 
yeux  ;  dans  la  plus  afFreuse  tempete  excite  par  des 
vents  opposes  qui  soulevent  les  flots,  il  n'y  a  pas 
une  seule  molecule  de  poussiere  ou  d'eau  qui  soit 
place  au  hasard,  qui  n'ait  sa  cause  sufHsante  pour 
occuper  le  lieu  oii  elle  se  trouve,  et  qui  n'agisse 
rigoureusement  de  la  maniere  dont  elle  doit  agir. 
Un  geometre  qui  connoitroit  exactement  les  dif- 
ferentes  forces  qui  agissent  dans  ces  deux  cas,  et 
les  proprictes  <\fs  molecules  qui  sont  mues,  demon- 
treroit  que  d'apres  des  causes  donnees,  chaque 
molecule  agit  precisement  comme  elle  doit  agir, 
et  no  pent  agir  autrement  qu'elle  ne  fait. 

Dans  les  convulsions  terribles  qui  agitent  quel- 
quefois  les  socictes  politiques,  et  qui   produiscnt 

♦  Laplace,  Systeme  du  Monde. 

i  Cabanis,  Rapports  du  Physique  et  du  Moral  de 
rjloinmo,  vol.  ii.  page  106. 

JLettressur  les  Sciences. 'h  Voltaire. — Bailhj. 
6 


.souvcnt  le  renversement  d'un  empire,  il  n'y  a  pas 
une  seule  action,  une  seule  parole,  une  scule  pen- 
sec,  une  seule  volonte,  une  seule  passion  dans  les 
agens  qui  concourent  a  la  revolution  comme  de- 
structors ou  comme  victimes,  qui  ne  soit  nece.ssaire, 
qui  n'agisse  comme  elle  doit  agir,  qui  n'opere 
infailliblcment  les  effets  qu'elle  doit  opercr  suivant 
la  place  qu'occupent  ces  agens  dans  ce  tourbillon 
moral.  Cela  paroitroit  evident  pour  une  intelli- 
gence qui  sera  en  j^tat  de  saiscr  et  d'apprecier  toutes 
les  actions  et  reactions  des  esprits  et  des  corps  de 
ceux  qui  contribuent  a  cette  revolution. — Syatcme 
de  la  Nature,  vol.  i.  page  44. 

P.  29,  col.  2, 1.  23. 
JVecessity,  thou  mother  of  the  world  I 

He  who  asserts  the  doctrine  of  Necessity,  means 
that,  contemplating  the  events  which  compose  the 
moral  and  material  universe,  he  beholds  only  an 
immense  and  uninterrupted  chain  of  causes  and 
effects,  no  one  of  which  could  occupy  any  other 
place  than  it  does  occupy,  or  act  in  any  other  place 
than  it  does  act.  The  idea  of  necessity  is  obtained 
by  our  experience  of  the  connection  between  ob- 
jects, the  uniformity  of  the  operations  of  nature, 
the  constant  conjunction  of  similar  events,  and  the 
consequent  inference  of  one  from  the  other.  Man- 
kind are  therefore  agreed  in  the  admission  of  ne- 
cessity, if  they  admit  that  these  two  circumstances 
take  place  in  voluntary  action.  Motive  is,  to 
voluntary  action  in  the  human  mind,  what  cause 
is  to  effect  in  the  material  universe.  The  word 
liberty,  as  applied  to  mind,  is  analogous  to  the 
word  chance  as  applied  to  matter :  they  spring 
from  an  ignorance  of  the  certainty  of  the  conjunc- 
tion of  antecedents  and  consequents. 

Every  human  being  is  irresistibly  impelled  to 
act  jarecisely  as  he  docs  act ;  in  the  eternity  which 
preceded  his  birth  a  chain  of  causes  was  generated, 
which,  operating  under  the  name  of  motives,  make 
it  impossible  that  any  thought  of  his  mind,  or  any 
action  of  his  life,  should  be  othervvise  than  it  is. 
Were  the  doctrine  of  Necessity  false,  the  human 
mind  would  no  longer  be  a  legitimate  object  of 
science  ;  from  like  causes  it  would  be  in  vain  that 
we  should  expect  like  effects;  the  strongest  motive 
would  no  longer  be  paramount  over- the  conduct; 
all  knowledge  would  be  vague  and  undcterminate  ; 
we  could  not  predict  with  any  certainty  that  we 
might  not  meet  as  an  enemy  to-morrow  him  from 
whom  we  have  parted  in  friendship  to-night ;  the 
most  probable  inducements  and  the  clearest  reason- 
ings would  lose  the  invariable  influence  they  pos- 
sess. The  contrary  of  this  is  demonstrably  the 
fact.  Similar  circumstances  produce  invariably 
simihir  effects.  The  precise  character  and  motives 
of  any  man  on  any  occasion  being  given,  the  moral 
philosopher  could  predict  his  actions  with  as  much 
certainty,  as  the  natural  philosopher  could  predict 
the  cfTccts  of  the  mixture  of  any  particular  chemi- 
cal substances.  Why  is  the  aged  husbandman 
more  experienced  than  the  young  beginner  1  Be- 
cause there  is  a  uniform,  undeniable  necessity  in 
the  operations  of  the  material  universe.  W^hy  is 
the  old  statesman  more  skilful  than  the  raw  poli- 
d2 


42 


NOTES    ON    QUEEN    MAB. 


tician  1  Because,  relying  on  the  necessary  con- 
junction of  motive  and  action,  he  proceeds  to 
produce  moral  cH'ccts,  by  tlie  application  of  those 
niiiriil  causes  which  cx])crioncc  has  sliown  to  be 
ollcctual.  Some  actions  may  he  found  to  which 
we  can  attach  no  motives,  but  tliesp  are  the  eflccls 
of  causes  with  which  we  are  unacquainted.  Hence 
the  relation  which  motive  bears  to  voluntary  action, 
is  that  of  cause  to  effect ;  nor,  placed  in  this  point 
of  view,  is  it,  or  ever  has  it  been,  the  subject  of 
popular  or  philosojihical  dispute.  None  but  the 
few  fanatics  who  arc  engaged  in  the  herculean 
task  of  reconciling  the  justice  of  their  God  with 
the  misery  of  man,  will  longer  outrage  common 
sense  by  the  supposition  of  an  event  without  a 
cause,  a  voluntary  action  without  a  motive.  His- 
tory, politics,  morals,  criticism,  all  grounds  of  rea- 
soning, all  principles  of  science,  alike  assume  the 
truth  of  the  doctrine  of  Necessity.  No  farmer 
carrying  his  corn  to  market  doubts  the  sale  of  it  at 
the  market  price.  The  master  of  a  manufactory 
no  more  doubts  that  he  can  purchase  the  human 
labour  necessary  for  his  purposes,  than  that  his  ma- 
chines will  act  as  they  have  been  accustomed  to  act 

But,  whilst  none  have  scrupled  to  admit  neces- 
sity as  influencing  matter,  many  have  disputed  its 
dominion  over  mind.  Independent  of  its  militating 
with  the  received  ideas  of  the  justice  of  God,  it  is 
by  no  means  obvious  to  a  superficial  inquiry. 
A^^hen  the  mind  observes  its  own  operations,  it 
feels  no  connection  of  motive  and  action :  but  as 
we  know  "  nothing  more  of  causation  than  the 
constant  conjunction  of  objects  and  the  consequent 
inference  of  one  from  the  othci',  as  we  find  that 
these  two  circumstances  are  universally  allowed  to 
have  place  in  voluntary  action,  we  may  be  easily 
led  to  own  that  they  are  subjected  to  the  necessity 
common  to  all  causes."  The  actions  of  the  will 
have  a  regular  conjunction  with  circumstances  and 
characters;  motive  is,  to  voluntary  action,  what 
cause  is  to  effect.  But  the  only  idea  that  we  can 
form  of  causation  is  a  constant  conjunction  of 
similar  oljects,  and  the  consequent  iidcrence  of 
one  from  the  other:  wherever  this  is  the  case, 
necessity  is  clearly  established. 

The  idea  of  liberty,  applied  metaphorically  to 
the  will,  has  sprung  from  the  misconception  of  the 
meaning  of  the  word  power.  What  is  power  ] — 
id  quod  potest,  that  which  can  produce  any  given 
effect.  To  deny  power,  is  to  say  that  nothing  can 
or  has  the  power  to  be  or  act.  In  the  only  true 
sense  of  the  word  power,  it  applies  with  equal 
f  )rce  to  the  loadstone  as  to  the  human  will.  Do 
you  think  these  motives,  which  I  shall  present,  are 
powerful  enough  to  rouse  him?  is  a  question  just 
as  common  as.  Do  you  think  this  lever  has  the 
power  of  raising  this  weight  1  The  advocates  of 
free-will  assert,  that  the  will  has  the  power  of  re- 
fusing to  be  determined  by  the  strongest  motive ; 
but  the  strongest  motive  is  that  which,  overcoming 
all  others,  ultimately  prevails;  this  assertion  there- 
fore amounts  to  a  denial  of  the  will  being  ulti- 
mately determined  by  that  motive  which  does  de- 
termine it,  which  is  absurd.  But  it  is  equally 
certain    that  a  man  cannot   resist    the    strongest 


motive,  as  that  he  cannot    overcome  a  phvsical 
impossibility. 

The  doctrine  of  Necessity  tends  to  introduce  a- 
great  change  into  the  established  notions  of  moral- 
ity, and  utterly  to  destroy  religion.  Iveward  and 
punishment  must  be  considered,  by  the  Neces- 
sarian, merely  as  moti\cs  which  he  would  employ 
in  order  to  procure  the  adoption  or  abandoinnent 
of  any  given  line  of  conduct.  Desert,  in  the  pre- 
sent sense  of  the  word,  would  no  longer  have  any 
meaning;  and  he,  who  .should  inflict  pain  upon 
anotlier  for  no  better  reason  than  that  he  deserved 
it,  would  only  gratify  his  revenge  under  pretence 
of  satisfying  justice.  It  is  not  enough,  says  the 
advocate  of  free-will,  that  a  criminal  should  be  pre- 
vented from  a  re])etition  of  his  crime ;  he  sliould 
feel  pain;  and  his  torments,  when  justly  inllicted, 
ought  precisely  to  be  proportioned  to  his  fiiult. 
But  utility  is  morality  ;  that  which  is  incapable  of 
producing  happiness  is  useless ;  and  though  the 
crime  of  Damiens  must  be  condemned,  yet  the 
frightful  torments  W'hich  revenge,  under  the  name 
of  justice,  inflicted  on  this  unhappy  man,  cannot 
be  supposed  to  have  augmented,  even  at  the  long- 
run,  the  stock  of  pleasurable  sensation  in  the 
world.  At  the  same  time,  the  doctrine  of  Neces- 
sity does  not  in  the  least  diminish  our  disappro- 
bation of  vice.  The  conviction  w  hich  all  feel,  that 
a  viper  is  a  poisonous  animal,  and  tiiat  a  tiger  is 
constrained,  by  the  inevitable  conditio]!  of  his  ex- 
istence, to  devour  men,  does  not  uuluce  us  to 
avoid  them  less  sedulously,  or,  even  more,  to  hesi- 
tate in  destroying  them :  but  he  would  surely  be 
of  a  hard  heart,  who  meeting  witli  a  serpent  on  a 
desert  island,  or  in  a  situation  where  it  was  inca- 
pable of  uijmy,  should  wantonly  deprive  it  of  ex- 
istence. A  Necessarian  is  inconsequent  to  his 
own  principles,  if  he  indulges  in  hatred  or  con- 
tempt ;  the  compassion  which  he  feels  for  the  cri- 
minal is  unmixed  with  a  desire  of  injuring  him : 
he  looks  with  an  elevated  and  drcadless  composure 
upon  the  links  of  the  universal  chain  as  they  pass 
before  his  eyes;  whilst  cowardice,  curiosity  and 
inconsistency,  only  assail  him  in  proportion  to  the 
feebleness  and  indistinctness  with  which  he  has 
perceived  and  rejected  the  delusions  of  free-will. 

Religion  is  the  perception  of  the  relation  in 
which  we  stand  to  the  principle  of  the  universe. 
But  if  the  principle  of  the  universe  be  not  an 
organic  being,  the  model  and  prototype  of  man, 
the  relation  between  it  and  human  beings  is  abso- 
lutely none.  Without  some  insight  into  its  will 
respecting  our  actions,  religion  is  nugatory  and 
vain.  But  will  is  only  a  mode  of  animal  mind; 
moral  qualities  also  are  such  as  only  a  human 
being  can  possess;  to  attribute  them  to  the  jirin- 
ciplc  of  the  universe,  is  to  annex  to  it  pro])erties 
incompatible  with  any  possible  definition  of  its 
nature.  It  is  probable  that  the  word  God  was 
originally  only  an  expression  denothig  the  un- 
known cause  of  the  known  events  which  men 
perceived  in  the  universe.  By  the  vulgar  mistake 
of  a  metaphor  for  a  real  being,  of  a  word  for  a 
thing,  it  became  a  man,  endowed  with  human 
quahties  and  governing  the  universe,  as  an  earthly 


NOTES    ON    QUEEN    MAB. 


43 


monarch  governs  his  kingilom.  Their  lulilresses 
to  this  imaginary  being,  indeed,  are  much  in  the 
same  style  as  those  of  suhjects  to  a  king.  They 
acknowledge  his  benevolence,  deprecate  his  anger, 
and  supplicate  his  favour. 

But  the  doctrine  of  Necessity  teaches  us,  that 
in  no  case  could  any  event  have  happened  other- 
wise than  it  did  happen ;  and  that,  if  (jod  is  the 
author  of  good,  he  is  also  the  author  of  e\'il;  tliat, 
if  he  is  entitled  to  our  gratitude  for  the  one,  he  is 
entitled  to  our  hatred  for  the  other;  that  admitting 
the  existence  of  this  hypothetic  being,  he  is  also 
subjected  to  the  dominion  of  an  immutable  neces- 
sity. It  is  plain  that  the  same  arguments  which 
prove  that  God  is  the  author  of  food,  light,  and 
life,  prove  him  also  to  be  the  author  of  poison, 
darkness,  and  death.  The  wide-wasting  earth- 
quake, the  storm,  the  battle,  and  the  tyranny,  are 
attributable  to  this  hypothetic  being,  in  the  same 
degree  as  the  foirest  forms  of  nature,  sunshine, 
liberty,  and  peace. 

But  we  are  taught,  by  the  doctrine  of  Neces- 
sity, that  there  is  neither  good  nor  evil  in  the 
universe,  otherwise  than  as  the  events  to  which 
we  apply  these  epithets  have  relation  to  our  own 
peculiar  mode  of  being.  Still  less  than  with  the 
hypothesis  of  a  God,  will  the  doctrine  of  Neces- 
sity accord  with  the  belief  of  a  future  state  of 
punishment.  God  made  man  such  as  he  is,  and 
then  damned  him  for  being  so:  for  to  say  that 
God  was  the  author  of  all  good,  and  man  the  au- 
thor of  all  evil,  is  to  say  that  one  man  made  a 
straight  line  and  a  crooked  one,  and  another  man 
made  the  incongruity.  SI^ 

A  Mahometan  story,  much  to  the  present  pur- 
pose, is  recorded,  wherein  Adam  and  Moses  are 
introduced  disputing  before  God  in  the  following 
manner.  "  Thou,"  says  Moses,  "  art  Adam,  whom 
God  created,  and  animated  with  the  breath  of  life, 
and  caused  to  be  worshipped  by  the  angels,  and 
placed  in  Paradise,  from  whence  mankind  have 
been  expelled  for  thy  fault."  Whereto  Adam 
answered,  "  Thou  art  Moses,  whom  God  chose  for 
his  apostle,  and  intrusted  with  his  word,  by  gi^^ng 
thee  the  tables  of  the  law,  and  whom  he  vouch- 
safed to  admit  to  discourse  with  himself.  How 
many  years  dost  thou  find  the  law  was  written 
before  I  was  created]"  Says  Moses,  "Forty." 
"  And  dost  thou  not  find,"  replied  Adam,  "  these 
words  therein,  '  and  Adam  rebelled  against  his 
Lord  and  transgressed]'"  Which  Moses  con- 
fessing, "  Dost  thou  therefore  blame  me,"  conti- 
nued he,  '•  for  doing  that  which  God  wrote  of  me 
that  I  should  do,  forty  years  before  I  was  created; 
nay,  for  what  was  decreed  concerning  me  fifty 
thousand  years  before  the  creation  of  heaven  and 
earth !" — Sale's  Prelim.  Disc,  to  the  Koran, 
page  161. 

P.  30,  col.  1,1.  17. 
There  is  no  Ood  .' 

This  negation  must  be  understood  .solely  to 
affect  a  creative  Deity.  The  hypothesis  of  a  per- 
vading Spirit,  coetcrnal  with  the  universe,  remains 
unshaken. 

A  close  examination  of  the  validity  of  the  proofs 


adduced  to  support  any  proposition,  is  the  only 
secure  way  of  attaining  truth,  on  the  advantages 
of  which  it  is  unnecessary  to  descant:  our  know- 
ledge of  the  existence  of  a  Deity  is  a  subject  of 
such  importance,  that  it  cannot  be  too  miinitely 
investigated ;  in  consequence  of  this  conviction 
we  ])roceed  briefly  and  iin|>artially  to  examine  the 
proofs  which  have  been  adduced.  It  is  necessary 
first  to  consider  the  nature  of  belief. 

Wiu'u  a  [)ro])osition  is  olTercd  to  the  mind,  it 
perceives  the  agreement  or  disagreement  of  the 
ideas  of  which  it  is  composed.  A  perception  of 
their  agreement  is  termed  belief.  Many  obstacles 
frequently  prevent  this  perception  from  being  im- 
mediate ;  these  the  mind  attempts  to  remove,  in 
order  that  the  perception  may  be  distinct.  The 
mind  is  active  in  the  investigation,  in  order  to  per- 
fect the  state  of  perception  of  the  relation  which 
the  component  ideas  of  the  jiroposition  bear  to 
each,  which  is  passive ;  the  investigation,  being 
confused  with  the  perception,  has  induced  many 
filsely  to  imatrine  that  the  mind  is  active  in  be- 
lief,— that  belief  is  an  act  of  volition, — in  conse- 
quence of  which  it  may  be  regulated  by  the  mind. 
Pursuing,  continuing  this  mistake,  they  have 
attached  a  degree  of  criminality  to  disbelief;  of 
which,  in  its  nature,  it  is  incapable  :  it  is  equally 
incapable  of  merit. 

Belief,  then,  is  a  passion,  the  strength  of  which, 
like  every  other  passion,  is  in  precise  proportion 
to  the  degrees  of  excitement. 

The  degrees  of  excitement  are  three. 

The  senses  are  the  sources  of  all  knowledge  to 
the  mind ;  consequently  their  e\ddence  claims  the 
strongest  assent. 

The  decision  of  the  mind,  founded  upon  our 
own  experience,  derived  from  these  sources,  claims 
the  next  degree. 

The  experience  of  others,  which  addresses  itself 
to  the  former  one,  occupies  the  lowest  degree. 

(A  graduated  scale,  on  which  .should  be  marked 
the  capabilities  of  propositions  to  approach  the 
test  of  the  senses,  would  be  a  just  barometer  of 
the  belief  which  ought  to  be  attached  to  them.) 

Consequently,  no  testimony  can  be  admitted 
which  is  contrary  to  reason ;  reason  is  founded  on 
the  evidence  of  our  senses. 

Every  proof  may  be  referred  to  one  of  these 
three  divisions  :  it  is  to  be  considered  what  argu- 
ments wo  receive  from  each  of  them,  which  should 
convince  us  of  the  existence  of  a  Deity. 

1st.  The  evidence  of  the  senses.  If  the  Deity 
should  appear  to  us,  if  he  should  convince  our 
senses  of  liis  existence,  this  revelation  would  ne- 
cessarily command  belief.  Those  to  whom  the 
Deity  has  thus  ajipeared  have  the  strongest  possi- 
ble conviction  of  his  existence.  But  the  God  of 
theologians  is  incapable  of  local  visibility. 

2d.  Reason.  It  is  urged  that  man  knows  that 
whatever  is,  mtist  either  have  had  a  beginning,  or 
have  existed  from  all  eternity  :  he  also  knows, 
that  whatever  is  not  eternal  must  have  had  a 
cause.  When  this  reasoning  is  applied  to  the 
universe,  it  is  necessary  to  prove  that  it  was 
created:    until  that  is   clearly  demonstrated,  we 


44 


NOTES    ON    QUEEN    MAB. 


may  reasonably  suppose  that  it  has  endured  from 
all  eternity.  We  must  prove  dcsin:n  before  we 
can  infer  a  desig-ner.  The  only  idea  which  we 
can  form  of  causation  is  derivable  from  the  con- 
stant conjunction  of  objects,  and  the  consequent 
inference  of  one  from  the  other.  In  a  case  where 
two  fjropositions  are  diametrically  opposite,  tlic 
mind  believes  that  which  is  least  incomprehensi- 
ble ; — it  is  easier  to  suppose  that  the  universe  has 
existed  from  all  eternity,  than  to  conceive  a  being' 
beyond  its  limits  capable  of  creating-  it :  if  tlic  mind 
sinks  beneath  the  weight  of  one,  is  it  an  alleviation 
to  increase  the  intolerability  of  the  burden  ? 

The  other  argument,  which  is  founded  on  a 
man's  knowledge  of  his  own  existence,  stands 
thus.  A  man  knows  not  only  that  he  now  is,  but 
that  once  he  was  not ;  consequently  there  must 
have  been  a  cause.  But  our  idea  of  causation  is 
alone  derivable  from  the  constant  conjunction  of 
objects  and  the  consequent  inference  of  one  from 
the  other;  and,  reasoning  experimentally,  we  can 
only  infer  from  eflects,  causes  exactly  adequate  to 
those  effects.  But  there  certainly  is  a  generative 
power  which  is  effected  by  certain  instruments : 
we  cannot  prove  that  it  is  inherent  in  these  instru- 
ments ;  nor  is  the  contrary  hypothesis  capable  of 
demonstration ;  we  admit  that  the  generative 
power  is  incomprehensible ;  but  to  suppose  that 
the  same  ellect  is  produced  by  an  eternal,  omni- 
scient, omnipotent,  being,  leaves  the  cause  in  the 
same  obscurity,  but  renders  it  more  incomprehen- 
sible. 

3d.  Testimony.  It  is  required  that  testimony 
should  not  be  contrary  to  reason.  The  testimony 
that  the  Deity  convinces  the  senses  of  men  of  his 
existence  can  only  be  admitted  by  us,  if  our  mind 
considers  it  less  probable  that  these  men  should 
have  been  deceived,  than  that  the  Deity  should 
have  appeared  to  them.  Our  reason  can  never 
admit  the  testimony  of  men.  who  not  only  declare 
that  they  were  eye-witnesses  of  miracles,  but  that 
the  Deity  was  irrational ;  for  he  commanded  that 
he  should  be  believed,  he  proposed  the  highest 
rewards  for  faith,  eternal  punishments  for  disbe- 
lief. We  can  only  command  voluntary  actions ; 
belief  is  not  an  act  of  volition ;  the  mind  is  even 
passive,  or  involuntarily  active:  from  this  it  is  evi- 
dent that  we  have  no  suflicient  testimony,  or 
rather  that  testimony  is  insullicient,  to  prove  the 
being  of  a  God.  It  has  been  before  shown  that 
it  cannot  be  deduced  from  reason.  They  alone, 
then,  who  have  been  convinced  by  the  evidence 
of  the  senses,  can  believe  it. 

Hence  it  is  evident  that,  having  no  proofs  from 
any  of  the  three  sources  of  conviction,  the  mind 
cannot  liclievc  the  existence  of  a  creative  God:  it 
is  also  evident  that,  as  belief  is  a  passion  of  the 
mind,  no  degree  of  criminality  is  attachable  to 
disbelief;  and  that  they  only  are  reprehensible 
who  neglect  to  remove  the  false  medium  through 
which  their  mind  views  any  subject  of  discussion. 
Every  redccting  mind  must  acknowledge,  that 
there  is  no  proof  of  the  existence  of  a  Deity. 

God  is  an  hyijothesis,  and  as  such,  stands  in 
need  of  proof;  the  onus  probandi  rests  on  the 


theist.  Sir  Isaac  Newton  says :  "  Hypotheses 
non  fingo,  quicquid  enim  ex  phenomenis  non 
deducitur  hypothesis  vocanda  est,  et  hypothesis 
vel  mcta  physiae,  vel  physica3,  vel  qualitatum 
occultarum,  sen  meclianica>,  in  j)hilosophia.  locum 
non  habent."  To  all  proofs  of  the  existence  of  a 
creative  CJod  apply  this  valuable  rule.  We  see  a 
variety  of  bodies  possessing  a  variety  of  powers ; 
we  merely  know  their  cllects;  we  are  in  a  state 
of  ignorance  with  respect  to  their  essences  and 
causes.  These  Newton  calls  the  phenomena  of 
things ;  but  the  pride  of  philosophy  is  unwilling 
to  admit  its  ignorance  of  their  causes.  From  the 
phenomena,  which  are  the  objects  of  our  senses, 
we  attempt  to  infer  a  cause,  which  we  call  God, 
and  gratuitously  endow  it  with  all  negative  and 
contradictory  qualities.  From  this  hj'pothesis  we 
invent  this  general  name,  to  conceal  our  ignorance 
of  causes  and  essences.  The  being  called  God  by 
no  means  answers  with  the  conditions  prescribed 
by  Newton ;  it  bears  every  mark  of  a  veil  woven 
by  philosophical  conceit,  to  hide  the  ignorance  of 
philosophers  even  from  themselves.  They  bor- 
row the  threads  of  its  texture  from  the  anthropo- 
morphism of  the  vulgar.  W^ords  have  been  used 
by  soj)hists  for  the  same  purposes,  from  the  occult 
qualities  of  the  Peripatetics  to  the  ej/lui'iu?u  of 
Boyle  and  the  crinifies  or  nchulx  of  Hcrschcl. 
God  is  represented  as  infinite,  eternal,  incompre- 
hensible ;  he  is  contained  under  every  privdicute 
in  non  that  the  logic  of  ignorance  could  fabricate. 
Even  his  worshippers  allow  that  it  is  impossible 
to  form  any  idea  of  him ;  they  exclaim  with  the 
French  poet, 

Pour  dire  ce  qu"il  est,  il  faut  etre  lui-meme. 

Lord  Bacon  says,  that  "  atheism  leaves  to  man 
reason,  philosophy,  natural  piety,  laws,  reputation, 
and  every  thing  that  can  serve  to  conduct  him  to 
virtue ;  but  suj)erstition  destroys  all  these,  and 
erects  itself  into  a  tyranny  over  the  understand- 
ings of  men :  hence  atheism  never  disturbs  the 
government,  but  renders  man  more  clear-sighted, 
since  he  sees  nothing  beyond  the  boundaries  of 
the  present  life." — Bacon's  Mural  Etsaijs. 

La  premiere  thuologie  de  I'honmie  lui  fit  d'abord 
craindrc  et  adorer  les  eloments  ineme,  des  objets 
mat^rielsetgrossicrs;  ilrenditensuitcseshommages 
a  des  agents  presidents  aux  elements,  a  des  genies 
inferieurs,  a  des  heros,  on  a  des  honnncs  doues  de 
grandcs  qualites.  A  force  de  reflccliir,  il  crut  sira- 
plilier  les  choses  en  soummetant  la  nature  ciitiere 
a  un  seul  agent,  a  un  esjirit,  a  unc  ame  universelle, 
qui  mettoit  cette  nature  et  ses  parties  en  mouve- 
ment.  En  remontant  de  causes  en  causes,  les 
mortels  out  fini  \nr  ne  rien  voir ;  et  c'cst  dans  cette 
obscurile  qu'ils  out  place  Icur  Dieu ;  c'est  dans 
ceta!)ime  teiiubreux  que  leur  imagination  inquiete 
travaille  toujours  a  se  labriquer  des  chimeres,  qui 
les  aliligeront  jusqu'a  cequc  la  connoissance  de  la 
nature  les  detrompe  des  fantomcs  qu'ils  out  tou- 
jours si  vainemcnt  adores. 

Si  nous  voulons  nous  rcndrc  compte  de  nos  idecs 
sur  la  Divinitu,  nous  serous  obliges   dc  convenir 


NOTES    ON    QUEEN    MAB. 


43 


quo,  par  le  mot  Dieu,  les  hommcs  n'ont  jamais  pxi 
designer  que  la  cause  la  plus  cacliaue,  la  plus 
eloignee,  la  plus  inconnue  des  clTets  qu'ils  voyoient: 
ils  ne  font  usage  de  ce  mot,  que  lorsquc  le  jeu  des 
causes  naturclles  et  connues  cessc  d'etre  visible 
pour  cux ;  des  qu'ils  perdcnt  le  fil  de  ces  causes, 
ou  des  que  leur  esprit  ne  pout  plus  en  suivre  la 
chaine,  ils  tranchcnt  leur  didicultc,  et  terminent 
Icurs  rechcrches  en  appellant  Dieu  la  derniere  des 
causes,  c'est-a-dire  eelle  qui  est  au-dela  de  toutes 
les  causes  qu'ils  ronnoissent ;  ainsi  ils  ne  font 
qu'assigner  une  denomination  vague  a  une  cause 
ignorce,  a  laquelle  lour  paressc  ou  les  borncs  de 
leurs  connoissances  les  forccnt  de  s'arretcr.  Toutes 
les  fois  qu'on  nous  dit  que  Dieu  est  I'auteur  de 
quelque  phcnomcne,  cela  signfie  qu'on  ignore 
comment  un  tel  phenomcne  pu  s'operer  par  le 
secours  des  forces  ou  des  causes  que  nous  connois- 
sons  dans  la  nature.  Cest  ainsi  que  le  commun 
des  hommes,  dont  I'ignorance  est  le  partage,  at- 
tribue  a  la  Divinite  non  seulement  les  effets  inu- 
sites  qui  les  frappcnt,  mais  encore  les  evenemens 
les  plus  simples,  dont  les  causes  sont  les  plus  fa- 
ciles  a  connoitre  pour  quiconque  a  pu  les  mediter. 
En  un  mot,  I'homme  a  toujours  respecte  les  causes 
inconnucs  des  effets  surprenans,  que  son  ignorance 
I'empeshoit  de  demeler.  Ce  fut  sur  les  debris  de 
la  nature  que  les  hommes  eleverent  le  colosse  ima- 
gininaire  de  la  Di\inite. 

Si  I'ignorance  de  la  nature  donna  la  naissance 
aux  dieux,  la  connoissance  de  la  nature  est  faite 
pour  les  detruire.  A  mesure  que  I'homme  s'instruit, 
ses  forces  et  ces  ressources  augmentent  avec  ses 
lumieres  ;  les  sciences,  les  arts  conservateurs,  I'in- 
dustrie,  lui  fournissent  des  secours;  I'experience 
le  rassure  ou  lui  procure  des  moyens  des  resistor 
aux  efforts  de  bien  des  causes  qui  cessent  de  I'alar- 
mer  des  qu'il  les  a  connues.  En  un  mot,  ses  ter- 
reurs  se  dissipent  dans  la  meme  proportion  que 
son  esprit  s'eclaire.  L'homme  instruit  cesse  d'etre 
superstitieux. 

Ce  n'est  jamais  que  sur  parole  que  des  pcuples 
entiers  adorent  le  Dieu  de  leurs  pores  et  de  leurs 
pretres  :  I'autorite,  la  confiance,  la  soumission,  et 
I'habitude,  leur  tiennent  lieu  de  conviction  et  de 
preuves ;  ils  se  prosternent  et  prient,  parce  que  leurs 
peres  leur  ont  appris  a  se  prosterner  et  prier : 
mais  pourquoi  ceux-ci  se  sont-ils  mis  a  gcnoux  ] 
Cest  que  dans  les  temps  eloignes  leurs  legislateurs 
et  leurs  guides  leur  en  ont  fait  un  devoir.  "  Ado- 
rez  et  croyez,"  ontils  dit,  "  des  dieux  que  vons  ne 
pouvez  comprendrc :  rapportez-vous-en  a  notre 
sagesse  profonde ;  nous  en  savons  plus  que  vous 
sur  la  Di^•inite"  Mais  pourquoi  m'en  rapporterois- 
je-a  vous  ]  Cest  que  Dieu  le  veut  ainsi,  c'est  que 
Dieu  vous  punira  si  vous  osez  resistor.  Mais  ce 
Dieu  n'est-il  done  pas  la  chose  en  question] 
Cependant  les  hommes  se  sont  toujours  payes  de  ce 
cercle  vicieux ;  la  paresse  de  leur  esprit  leur  fit 
trouvcr  plus  court  de  s'en  rapporter  au  jugemont 
des  autres.  Toutes  les  notions  rcligieuscs  sont 
fondeos  uniquemont  sur  Tautorite  ;  toutes  les  reli- 
gions du  monde  defcndent  Tcxamcn,  et  ne  veulent 
pas  que  Ton  raisonne  ;  c'est  I'autorite  qui  vent 
qu'on  croie  en  Dieu ;  ce  Dieu  n'est  lui-meme  fonde 


que  sur  I'autorite  de  quolques  hommes  qui  pr6- 
tcndent  lo  connoitre,  et  venir  de  sa  part  pour  I'an* 
noncer  a  la  t(?rre.  Un  Dieu  fait  par  les  hommes, 
a  sans  doute  besoin  des  hommes  pour  se  faire  con- 
noitre aux  hommes. 

Ne  seroit-ce  done  que  pour  dos  pretres,  dos  in- 
spires, des  metaphysicicns,  que  seroit  reservee  la 
conviction  de  Tcxistence  d'un  Dieu,  que  Ton  dit 
neanmoins  si  neccssaire  a  tout  le  genre  humain  1 
Mais  trouvons-nous  de  I'luirmonie  entrc  les  opi- 
nions theologi'qucs  de  dillerens  inspires,  ou  des 
penseurs  repandus  sur  la  terre  ]  Ccux  memo  qui 
font  profession  d'adorer  le  meme  Dieu,  sont^ils 
d'accord  sur  son  compte  1  Sont-ils  contents  des 
preuves  que  leurs  collogues  apportcnt  de  son  exis- 
tence] Souscrivcnt-ils  unanimement  aux  idees 
qu'ils  presontent  sur  sa  nature,  sur  sa  conduite, 
sur  sa  facon  d'entendre  ses  pretendus  oracles] 
Est-il  une  contree  sur  la  terre,  ou  la  science  de 
Dieu  se  soit  reellcmont  perfectionntc  ]  A-t-elle 
pris  quelque  part  la  consistanco  ot  I'uniformite  que 
nous  voyons  prendre  aux  connoissanccs  humaines, 
aux  arts  los  plus  futiles,  aux  metiers  les  plus  me- 
prises]  Dos  mots  CCesprit,  d'immafcrialitc,  de 
creation,  de  predestination,  de  grace ,-  cette  foule 
de  distinctions  subfiles  dont  la  theologie  s'est  par- 
tout  rcmplie  dans  quolques  pays,  ces  inventions  si 
ingenieuses,  imaginees  par  des  penseurs  qui  se  sont 
succedes  dopuis  tant  de  siecles,  n'ont  fait,  helas  ! 
qu'embrouiller  les  choses,  et  jamais  la  science  la 
plus  neccssaire  aux  hommes  n'a  jusqu'ici  pu  ac- 
querir  la  moindre  fixite.  Depuis  des  milliers  d'an- 
nees,  ces  reveurs  oisifs  se  sont  perpetucllement  re- 
layes  pour  mediter  la  Divinite,  pour  deviner  ses 
voies  cachees,  pour  inventor  dos  h}-potheses  pro- 
pros  a  develloper  cette  enigme  importante.  Leur 
pen  de  succes  n'a  point  decourage  la  vanite  theo- 
logique  ;  toujours  on  a  parle  de  Dieu:  on  s'est 
egorge  pour  lui,  et  cet  etre  sublime  demeure  tou- 
jours le  plus  ignore  et  le  plus  discute. 

Les  hommes  auroient  ete  trop  heureux,  si,  se 
bornant  aux  objets  visibles  qui  les  interessent,  ils 
eussent  employe,  a  perfectionner  leurs  sciences 
reelles,  leurs  lois,  leur  morale,  leur  education,  la 
moitie  des  efforts  qu'ils  ont  mis  dans  leurs  recher- 
ches  sur  la  Di\inite.  lis  auroient  ete  bien  plus 
sages  encore,  et  plus  fortunes,  s'ils  eussent  pu  con- 
sentir  a  laisser  Iciu-s  guides  descruvres  se  quereller 
entre  eux,  et  sonder  dos  profondeurs  capables  de 
les  etourdir,  sans  se  meler  de  leurs  disputes  insonsees. 
Mais  il  est  de  I'cssence  de  I'ignorance  d'attachcr 
de  I'importance  a  ce  qu'elle  ne  comprond  pas.  La 
vanite  humaine  fait  que  Tesprit  se  roidit  centre  las 
difficulties.  Plus  un  objet  se  derobe  a  nos  yeux, 
plus  nous  faisons  d'efforts  pour  le  sasir,  parceque 
des-lors  il  aiguillonne  notre  orgucil,  il  excite  notre 
curiosite,  il  nous  paroit  interessant.  En  combat- 
tant  pourson  Dieu  chacun  ne  combattit  en  cffet 
que  pour  les  interots  de  sa  propre  vanite,  que  de 
toutes  les  passions  produitcs  par  la  mal-organisa- 
tion  de  la  societe,  est  la  plus  prompte  a  s'alarmcr, 
et  la  plus  propre  a  produire  de  tres-grandes  folios. 

Si,  ecartant  pour  mi  moment  los  idecs  fdcheuses 
que  la  theologie  nous  donne  d'un  Dieu  capricieux, 
dont  les  decrets  partiaux  et  dospotiques  decident 


46 


NOTES    ON    QUEEN    MAB. 


du  sort  (Ics  humains,  nous  ne  voulons  fixer  nos 
yeux  que  sur  la  bonto  prLtendue  que  tons  les  hom- 
nics,  momc  en  treniMaiit  devatit  ee  Diou,  s'accor- 
deiit  a  lui  doiincr;  si  nous  lui  supposons  le  projct 
qu'on  lui  prete,  de  n'avoir  travaillc  que  pour  sa 
propre  gloirc ;  d'exigcr  les  honimagcs  des  ctres 
intelligcns ;  de  ne  chcrchcr  dans  ses  oeuvres  que 
le  bien-otre  du  genre  humain ;  comment  concilier 
ses  vueset  ses  dispositions  avec  I'ignorance  ^Tainlent 
invincible  dans  laquoUc  cc  Dieu,  si  glorieux  et  si 
bon,  laisse  la  plupart  dcs  honimes  sur  son  comptel 
oi  Diou  veut  etre  connu,  cheri,  rcniercie,  que  ne 
se  montre-t-il  sous  dcs  traits  favorablcs  a  tous  ces 
etrcs  intelligcns  dont  il  vcut  otre  ainie  ct  adore  1 
Pourquoi  no  point  sc  manifcstcr  a  toute  la  teiTe 
d'une  faron  non  equivoque,  bicn  plus  capable  de 
nous  convaincre,  que  ces  revelations  particulieres 
qui  scmblcnt  accuser  la  Divinite  d'une  partialite 
fecheuse  pour  quelques-uncs  dc  ses  creatures  1 
Le  Tout-Puissant  n'auroit-il  done  pas  dcs  mojens 
plus  convainquans  da  se  montrcr  aux  hommcs  que 
ces  metamorphoses  ridicules,  ces  incarnations  pre- 
tendues,  qui  nous  sont  attcstces  par  des  ecrivains  si 
peu  d'accord  entre  eux  dans  les  rccits  qu'ils  en 
font?  Au  lieu  de  tant  de  miracles  invcntes  pour 
prouver  la  mission  divine  de  taut  de  legislatcurs 
reveres  par  les  dilTcrens  pcuples  du  monde,  le  sou- 
verain  dcs  csprits  ne  pouvoit-il  pas  convaincre  tout 
d'un  coup  I'csprit  humain  dcs  choscs  qu'il  a  voulu 
lui  faire  connoitre  1  Au  lieu  de  suspendre  un 
soleil  dans  la  voute  du  firmament ;  au  lieu  de  re- 
pandre  sans  ordre  les  etoiles  et  les  constellations 
qui  remplissent  I'espace,  n'eut-il  pas  ete  plus  con- 
forme  aux-  vues  d"vm  Dieu  jaloux  de  sa  glorie  et  si 
bien-intentionne  peur  I'homme,  d'ecrire  d'une  fa- 
con  non  sujette  a  dispute,  son  nom,  ses  attributs, 
ses  volontes  permanentcs,  en  caract(''resincflh9ables, 
et  lisibles  egalement  pour  tous  les  habitans  de  la 
terre  ?  Personne  alors  n'auroit  pu  douter  de  I'cx- 
istence  d'un  Dieu,  dc  ses  volontes  claires,  de  ses 
intentions  visibles.  Sous  les  yeux  dc  ce  Dieu  si 
terrible  personne  n'auroit  cu  Taudace  de  violer  ses 
ordonnances ;  nul  mortcl  n'eut  eu  le  fi-ont  d'cn 
imposer  en  son  nom.  ou  d'intcrpreter  ses  volontes 
suivant  ses  propres  fantaisics. 

En  ciTct,  quand  mcmc  on  admettroit  I'cxistence 
du  Dieu  theologiquc,  et  la  rcalite  des  attributs  si 
discordans  qu'on  lui  donne,  Ton  nc  pent  en  rien 
conclure,  pour  autoriser  la  conduite  ou  les  cultcs 
qu'on  prcscrit  de  lui  rendre.  La  thoologie  est  vTai- 
mcnt  le  tonneau  des  Danaules.  A  force  de  qualites 
contradictoires  et  d'assertions  hasardoes,  ella  a,  pour 
ainsi  dire,  tellement  garotte  son  Dieu  qu'clle  I'a 
mis  dans  Timpossibilito  d'agir.  S'il  est  infiniment 
bon,  quelle  raison  aurionsnous  de  le  craindre  ?  S'il 
est  infiniment  sago,  de  quoi  nous  inquieter  sur 
notrc  sortl  S'il  sait  tout,  pourquoi  I'avertir  dc 
nos  besoins,  et  le  fatiguer  de  nos  prieres  1  S'il  est 
partout,  pourquoi  lui  elevcr  destemples  1  S'il  est 
maitre  de  tout,  pourquoi  lui  faire  des  sacrifices  et 
dcs  olTrandcs  1  S'il  est  juste,  comment  croire  qu'il 
punisse  des  creatures  qu'il  a  rcmplics  dc  foiblessesi 
Si  la  grace  fait  tout  en  cllcs,  qu'ello  raison  auroit- 
il  dc  les  rocompenser  1  S'il  est  tout-puissant, 
comment  roffcnser,  comment  lui   resister?     S"il 


est  raisonnalile,  comment  se  mettroit-il  en  colere 
contrc  des  aveugles,  a  qui  il  a  laisse  la  libcrte  de 
deraisonner !  S'il  est  inmiuablc,  de  quel  droit 
pretcndrions-nous  faire  changer  ses  decret-s  1  S'il 
inconcevable,  pourquoi  nous  en  occupcr  1  S'il  a 
fable',  pounQ.i"oi  l'univeus  x'est-il  pas  cox- 
VAixcrl  S'il  la  connaissance  d'un  Dieu  est  la 
plus  nccessaire,  pourquoi  n'est-elle  pas  la  plus 
evidcnte,  ct  la  elus  claire ! — Syitcme  de  la  Nw- 
ture.     London,  1781. 

The  enlightened  and  benevolent  Pliny  thus 
publicly  i)rofcsscs  himself  an  atheist : — Quapropter 
cfTigicm  Dei,  formamque  quoerere,  imbccillitatis  hu- 
mane reor.  Qnisquis  estDeus  (si  modo  est  alius) 
et  quacunquc  in  parte,  totus  est  sensus,  totus  est 
visus  totus  auditus,  totus  animae,  totus  aninii,  to- 
tus sui.  •  *  *  *  ImperfectiE  vcro  in 
homine  naturae  prsecipua  solatia  ne  deum  quidcm 
posse  omnia.  Namque  nee  sibi  potest  mortem 
consciscere,  si  vclit,  quod  homini  dedit  oj>timum 
intantisvitapcrnis:  nee  mortalesffiternitatetionare, 
aut  revocare  defunctos ;  nee  facere  ut  qui  vixit  non 
\'ixerit,  qui  honorcs  gcssit  non  gesserit,  nullumque 
habere  in  prcpteritum  jus,  prsetcrquam  oblivionis, 
(atque  ut  facctis  quoque  argumentis  socictas  ha;c 
cum  deo  copuletur,)  ut  bis  dena  viginta  non  sint, 
et  multa  similiter  eflicere  non  posse. — Per  qui, 
dcclaraturhaud  dubie,  naturoe  potentiam  id  quoque 
esse,  quod  Deum  vocamus. — Plin.  Nat.  Hiit.  cap. 
de  Deo. 

The  consistent  Newtonian  is  necessarily  an 
atheist.  See  Sir  W.  Dhujimoxd's  Academical 
Questions,  chap.  iii. — Sir  W.  seems  to  consider  the 
atheism,  to  which  it  leads,  as  a  suflicicnt  presump- 
tion of  the  falsehood  of  tlie  system  of  gravitation : 
but  surely  it  is  more  consistent  with  the  good  faith 
of  philosophy  to  admit  a  deduction  from  facts 
than  an  hypothesis  incapable  of  proof,  although 
it  might  militate  with  the  obstinate  preconceptions 
of  the  mob.  Had  this  author,  instead  of  inveigh- 
ing against  the  guilt  and  absurdity  of  atheism,  de- 
monstrated its  falsehood,  his  conduct  would  have 
been  more  suited  to  the  modesty  of  the  skeptic 
and  the  toleration  of  the  philosopher.  O^ 

Omnia  enim  per  Dei  potentiam  ficta  sunt:  imo, 
quia  nature  potcnlia  nulla  est  nisi  ipsa  Dei  potcn- 
tia,  autem  est  nos  eatenus  Dei  potentiam  noii  in- 
telligere,  quatenus  causas  naturales  ignoramus; 
adeoque  stulte  ad  candem  Dei  potentiam  rccurri- 
tur,  quando  rei  alicujus,  causam  naturalcm,  sive 
est,  ipsam  Dei  potentiam  ignoramus. — Si-ixosa, 
Tract.  Theologicv-rol.  chap.  i.  page  14. 
P.  30,  col.  2, 1.  12. 
.^hasttcrua,  rise  I 

"  Ahasuenis  the  Jew  crept  forth  from  tlie  dark 
cave  of  Mount  Carmcl.  Near  two  thousand  years 
have  elapsed  since  he  was  first  goaded  by  never- 
ending  restlessness  to  rove  the  globe  from  jmle  to 
pole.  When  our  Lord  was  wearied  with  the  bur- 
den of  his  ponderous  cross,  and  wanted  to  rest  be- 
fore the  door  of  Ahnsuorus,  the  unfeeling  wretch 
drove  him  away  witli  brutality.  The  saviour  of 
mankind  staggered,  siidiing  under  the  heavy  load, 


NOTES    ON    QUEEN    MAB. 


47 


hut  uttered  no  comiiliiiiit.  An  anRcl  of  death 
apixMrcd  before  Ahasuerus,  and  exclaimed  iiidig- 
nautly,  '  Barbarian  !  thou  hast  denied  rest  to  the 
Son  of  Man ;  be  it  denied  thee  also,  until  he 
comes  to  judi^e  the  world.' 

"  A  black  demon,  let  loose  from  hell  upon  Ahas- 
uerus, goads  liini  now  from  country  to  country  : 
he  is  denied  the  consolation  which  death  alfords, 
and  precluded  from  the  rest  of  the  peaceful  grave. 

"  Ahasuerus  crept  forth  from  the  dark  cave  of 
Mount  Carmel — he  shook  the  dust  from  his  beard — 
and  taking  up  one  of  the  sculls  heaped  there,  hurled 
it  down  the  eminence:  it  rebounded  from  the  earth 
in  shivered  atoms.  '  This  was  my  father  !'  roared 
Ahasuerus.  Seven  more  sculls  rolled  down  from 
rock  to  rock ;  while  the  infuriate  Jew,  following 
them  with  ghastly  looks,  exclaimed — ^  And  these 
were  my  wives!'  He  still  continued  to  hurl  down 
scull  after  scull,  roaring  in  dreadful  accents — 
<  And  these,  and  these,  and  these  were  my  child- 
ren!  They  could  die ;  liut  I !  reprobate  wretch, 
alas!  I  cannot  die  !  Dreadful  beyond  conception 
is  the  judgment  that  hangs  over  me.  Jerusalem 
fell — I  crushed  the  sucking-babe,  and  precipitated 
myself  into  the  destructive  flames.  I  cursed  the 
Romans — but,  alas  !  alas  !  the  restless  curse  held 
me  by  the  hair, — and  I  could  not  die  ! 

« '  Rome  the  giantess  fell — I  placed  myself  be- 
fore the  falling  statue — she  fell,  and  did  not  crush 
me.  Nations  sprang  up  and  disappeared  before 
me ;  but  I  remained,  and  did  not  die.  From  cloud- 
encircled  cliffs  did  I  precipitate  myself  into  the 
ocean  ;•  but  the  foaming  billows  cast  me  upon  the 
shore,  and  the  burning  arrow  of  existence  pierced 
my  cold  heart  again.  I  leaped  into  Etna's  flaming 
abyss,  and  roared  with  the  giants  for  ten  long 
mouths,  polluting  with  my  groans  the  mount's 
sulphureous  mouth — ah !  ten  long  months.  The 
volcano  fermented,  and  in  a  fiery  stream  of  lava 
cast  me  up.  I  lay  torn  by  the  torture-snakes  of 
hell  amid  the  glowing  cinders,  and  yet  continued 
to  exist. — ^A  forest  was  on  fire :  I  darted,  on  wings 
of  firry  and  despair,  into  the  crackling  wood.  Fire 
dropped  upon  me  fi-om  the  trees,  but  the  flames 
only  singed  my  limbs ;  alas !  it  could  not  consume 
them. — I  now  mixed  with  tlie  butchers  of  man- 
kind, and  plunged  in  the  tempest  of  the  raging 
battle.  I  roared  defiance  to  the  infuriate  Gaul, 
defiance  to  the  victorious  German ;  but  arrows  and 
spears  rebounded  in  shivers  fi-om  my  body.  The 
Saracen's  flaming  sword  broke  upon  my  scidl : 
balls  in  vain  hissed  upon  me :  the  lightnings  of 
battle  glared  harmless  around  my  loins :  in  vain 
did  the  elephant  trample  on  me,  in  vain  the  iron 
hoof  of  the  wrathful  steed !  The  mine,  big  with 
destructive  power,  burst  under  me,  and  hurled  me 
high  in  the  air — I  fell  on  heaps  of  smoking  limbs, 
but  was  only  singed.  The  giant's  steel  club  re- 
bounded fi-om  my  body  :  the  executioner's  hand 
could  not  strangle  me,  the  tiger's  tooth  could  not 
pierce  me,  nor  would  the  hungry  lion  in  the  circus 
devour  me.  I  cohabited  with  poisonous  snakes, 
and  pinched  the  red  crest  of  the  dragon.  The 
scqjcnt  stung,  but  could  not  destroy  me.  The 
dragon  tormented,  but  dared  not  to  devour  me. — 


I  now  provoked  the  fiiry  of  tyrants :  I  said  to  Nero, 
Thou  art  a  bloodhound  !  I  said  to  Christ  iern.  Thou 
art  a  bloodhound  !  I  said  to  Muley  Ismail,  Thou 
art  a  bloodhound !     The    tyrants  invented   cruel 

torments,  but  did  not  kill  me. Ha !    not 

to  be  able  to  die — not  to  be  able  to  die,  not  to  be 
permitted  to  rest  after  the  toils  of  life — to  be  doomed 
to  be  imprisoned  for  ever  in  this  clay-formed 
dungeon — to  be  for  ever  clogged  with  this  worth- 
less body,  its  load  of  diseases  and  infirmities — to 
be  condemned  to  hold  for  millemiiums  that  yawn- 
ing monster  Sameness,  and  Time,  that  hungry 
hyena,  ever  bearing  children,  and  ever  devouring 
again  her  offspring ! — Ha !  not  to  be  jjcrmittcd  to 
die !  Awful  avenger  in  heaven,  hast  thou  in 
thine  armoury  of  wrath  a  punishment  more  dread- 
ful? then  let  it  thunder  upon  me,  command  a 
hurricane  to  sweep  me  down  to  the  foot  of  Carmel, 
that  I  there  may  he  extended ;  may  pant,  and 
writhe,  and  die  !'  " 

This  fi-agment  is  the  translation  of  part  of  some 
German  work,  whose  title  I  have  vainly  endeavoured 
to  discover.  I  picked  it  up,  dhty  and  torn,  some 
years  ago,  in  Luicoln's-Inn  Fields. 

P.  31,  col.  1, 1.  22. 

I  will  hegct  a  sov,  and  he  shall  hear 
The  sins  of  all  the  world. 

A  book  is  put  into  our  hands  when  children, 
called  the  Bible,  the  purport  of  whose  history  is 
briefly  this :  That  God  made  the  earth  in  six  days, 
and  there  planted  a  delightful  garden,  in  which  he 
placed  the  first  pair  of  human  beings.  In  the 
midst  of  the  garden  he  planted  a  tree,  whose  fruit, 
although  within  their  reach,  they  were  tbrbidden 
to  touch.  That  the  Devil,  in  the  shape  of  a  snake, 
persuaded  them  to  eat  of  this  fruit ;  in  consequence 
of  which  God  condemned  both  them  and  their 
posterity  yet  unborn,  to  satisfy  his  justice  by  their 
eternal  misery.  That,  four  thousand  years  after 
these  events,  (the  human  race  in  the  mean  while 
having  gone  unredeemed  to  perdition,)  God  en- 
gendered with  the  betrothed  wife  of  a  carpenter  in 
Judca,  (whose  \irginity  was  nevertheless  uninjured,) 
and  begat  a  Son,  whose  name  was  Jesus  Christ ; 
and  who  was  crucified  and  died,  in  order  that  no 
more  men  might  be  devoted  to  hell-fire,  he  bearing 
the  burden  of  his  Father's  displeasure  by  proxy. 
The  book  states,  in  addition,  that  the  soul  of  who- 
ever disbelieves  this  sacrifice  will  be  burned  with 
everlasting  fire. 

During  many  ages  of  misery  and  darkness  this 
story  gained  implicit  belief;  but  at  length  men 
arose  who  suspected  that  it  was  a  fable  and  im- 
posture, and  that  Jesus  Chri.st,  so  far  from  being  a 
God,  was  only  a  man  like  themselves.  ]5ut  a 
numerous  set  of  men,  who  derived  and  still  derive 
immense  emoluments  from  this  opinion,  in  the 
shape  of  a  popular  belief,  told  the  vulgar,  that,  if 
they  did  not  believe  in  the  Bible,  they  would  be 
damned  to  all  eternity ;  and  burned,  imprisoned, 
and  poisoned  all  the  unbiassed  and  unconnected 
inquirerswho  occasionally  arose.    They  still  oppress 


48 


NOTES    ON    QUEEN    MAB. 


them,  so  far  as  the  people,  now  become  more  en- 
lightened, will  allow. 

The  belief  in  all  that  tlic  Bible  contains,  is  called 
Chri.-tianity.  A  Roman  governor  of  Judea,  at  the 
instances  of  a  priest-led  mob,  crucified  a  man  called 
Jesus  eighteen  centuries  ago.  He  was  a  man  of 
pure  life,  who  desired  to  rescue  hi.s  countrymen 
from  the  tyranny  of  their  barbarous  and  degrading 
superstitions.  The  common  fate  of  all  who  desire 
to  benefit  mankind  awaited  him.  The  rubble,  at 
the  instigation  of  the  priests,  demanded  his  death, 
although  liis  vcrj-  judge  made  public  acknowledg- 
ment of  liis  innocence.  Jesus  was  sacrificed  to  the 
honour  of  that  God  with  whom  he  was  afterwards 
confounded.  It  is  of  importance,  therefore,  to 
distinguish  between  the  pretended  character  of  this 
being  as  the  Son  of  God  and  the  Saviour  of  the 
world,  and  his  real  character  as  a  man,  who,  for  a 
vain  attempt  to  reform  the  world,  paid  the  forfeit 
of  his  life  to  that  overbearing  tyranny  which  has 
since  so  long  desolated  the  imiversc  in  his  name. 
Whilst  the  one  is  a  hypocritical  demon,  who  an- 
nounces himself  as  the  God  of  compassion  and 
peace,  even  whilst  he  stretches  forth  his  blood-red 
hand  with  the  sword  of  discord  to  waste  the  earth, 
having  confessedly  devised  this  scheme  of  desolation 
from  eternity ;  the  other  stands  in  the  foremost  list 
of  those  true  heroes,  who  have  died  in  the  glorious 
mart>Tdom  of  liberty,  and  have  •  braved  torture, 
contempt,  and  poverty,  in  the  cause  of  suffering 
humanity.* 

The  vulgar,  ever  in  extremes,  become  persuaded 
that  the  crucifixion  of  Jesus  was  a  supernatural 
event.  Testimonies  of  miracles,  so  frequent  in 
unenlightened  ages,  were  not  wanting  to  prove 
that  he  was  something  divine.  The  belief,  rolling 
through  the  lapse  of  ages,  met  with  the  reveries 
of  Plato  and  the  reasonings  of  Aristotle,  and  ac- 
quired force  and  extent,  until  the  divinity  of  Jesus 
became  a  dogma,  which  to  dispute  was  death,  which 
to  doubt  was  infamy. 

Christianity  is  now  the  established  religion ;  he 
who  attempts  to  impugn  it  must  be  contented  to 
behold  murderers  and  traitors  take  precedence  of 
him  in  pubhc  opinion:  though,  if  his  genius  be 
equal  to  his  courage,  and  assisted  by  a  peculiar 
coalition  of  circumstances,  future  ages  may  exalt 
him  to  a  divinity,  and  persecute  others  in  his 
name,  as  he  was  persecuted  in  the  name  of  liis 
predecessors  in  the  homage  of  the  world. 

The  same  means  that  have  supported  every 
other  popular  belief,  have  supported  Christianity. 
War,  imprisonment,  assassination,  and  falsehood ; 
deeds  of  unexampled  and  incomparable  atrocity 
have  made  it  what  it  is.  The  blood  shed  by  the 
votaries  of  the  God  of  mercy  and  peace,  since  the 
establishment  of  his  religion,  would  probably  sufl'icc 
to  drown  all  other  sectaries  now  on  the  habitable 
globe.  We  derive  from  our  ancestors  a  faith  thus 
fostered  and  sup)ported :  we  quarrel,  persecute,  and 
hate,  for  its  maintenance.     Even  under  a  govcrn- 


♦  Since  writing  this  note,  1  hnve  seen  rerison  to  sus- 
pect tli:it  Jesus  was  an  ambitious  man,  who  aspired  to 
the  throne  of  Judea. 


ment  which,  whilst  it  infringes  the  very  right  of 
thought  and  .speech,  boasts  of  jicrniitting  the  liberty 
of  the  press,  a  man  is  })illoricd  and  imprisoned  be- 
cause he  is  a  deist,  and  no  one  raises  his  voice  in 
the  indignation  of  outraged  humanity.  But  it  is 
ever  a  proof  that  the  falsehood  of  a  proposition  is 
felt  by  those  who  use  coercion,  not  reasoning,  to 
procure  its  admission:  and  a  dispassionate  observer 
would  feel  himself  more  powerfully  interested  in 
favour  of  a  man,  who  depending  on  the  truth  of 
his  opinions,  simj)ly  stated  his  reasons  for  entertain- 
ing them,  than  in  that  of  liis  aggressor,  who, 
daringly  avowing  his  unwiUingness  or  incapacity 
to  answer  them  liy  argument,  proceeded  to  repress 
the  energies  and  break  the  .spirit  of  their  promulgator 
by  that  torture  and  imprisomnent  whose  infliction 
he  could  command. 

Analogy  seems  to  favour  the  opinion,  that  as, 
like  other  systems,  Christianity  has  arisen  and 
augmented,  so  like  them  it  will  decay  and  perish ; 
that,  as  violence,  darkness,  and  deceit,  not  reason- 
ing and  persuasion,  have  procured  its  admission 
among  mankind,  so,  when  enthusia.sm  has  euh- 
sided,  and  time,  that  infallible  controvcrter  of  false 
opinions,  has  involved  its  pretended  evidences  in 
the  darkness  of  antiquity,  it  will  become  obsolete ; 
that  Milton's  poem  alone  will  give  pemianency  to 
the  remembrance  of  its  absurdities ;  and  that  men 
will  laugh  as  heartily  at  gi-ace,  faith,  redemption, 
and  original  sin,  as  they  now  do  at  the  metamor- 
phoses of  Jupitcj,  the  miracles  of  Komish  saints,  the 
efficacy  of  witchcraft,  and  the  appearance  of  de- 
parted spirits. 

Had  the  Christian  religion  commenced  and  con- 
tinued by  the  mere  force  of  reasoning  and  persuasion, 
the  preceding  analogy  would  be  inadmissible.  We 
should  never  speculate  on  the  future  obsoleteness 
of  a  system  perfectly  conformable  to  nature  and 
reason ;  it  would  endure  so  long  as  they  endured ; 
itjwould  be  a  truth  as  indisputable  as  the  light  of 
the  sun,  the  criminality  of  murder,  and  other  facts, 
whose  evidence,  depending  on  our  organization 
and  relative  situations,  must  remain  acknowledged 
as  satisfactory  so  long  as  man  is  man.  It  is'  an  in- 
controvertible fact,  the  consideration  of  which  ought 
to  repress  the  hasty  conclusions  of  credulity,  or 
moderate  its  ob.stinacy  in  maintaining  them,  that, 
had  the  Jews  not  been  a  fanatical  race  of  inch,  had 
even  the  resolution  of  Pontius  Pilate  been  equal  to 
iiis  candour,  the  Christian  religion  never  could 
have  prevailed,  it  could  not  even  have  existed:  on 
so  feeble  a  thread  hangs  the  most  cherished  opinion 
of  a  sixth  of  the  human  race !  When  will  the 
vulgar  learn  humility  1  When  will  tlie  pride  of 
ignorance  blush  at  having  believed  before  it  could 
comprehend  1 

Either  the  Christian  religion  is  true,  or  it  is  false; 
if  true,  it  comes  from  Ciod,  and  its  authenticity  can 
admit  of  doubt  and  dispute  no  further  than  its 
omnipotent  autlior  is  willing  to  allow.  Either  the 
power  or  goodness  of  God  is  called  in  question,  if 
he  leaves  those  doctrines  most  essential  to  the  well- 
being  of  man  in  doubt  and  dispute ;  the  only  ones 
which,  since  their  promulgation,  have  been  the 
subject  of  unceasing  cavil,  the  cause  of  irreconcilable 


NOTES    ON    QUEEN    MAB. 


49 


hatred.  If  God  has  spoken,  why  is  the  universe 
not  convinced? 

There  is  tliis  passage  in  the  Christian  Scriptures  : 
"Those  who  obey  not  God,  and  believe  not  the 
Gospel  of  his  Son,  shall  be  punished  with  everlast- 
ing destruction."  This  is  the  pivot  upon  which 
all  religions  turn :  they  all  assume  that  it  is  in  our 
power  to  believe  or  not  to  believe ;  whereas  the 
mind  can  only  believe  that  which  it  thinks  true. 
A  human  being  can  only  be  supposed  accounUible 
for  those  actions  which  arc  inllucnced  by  his  will. 
But  belief  is  utterly  distinct  from,  and  unconnected 
with,  volition :  it  is  the  apprehension  of  the  agree- 
ment or  disagreement  of  the  ideas  that  compose 
any  proposition.  Belief  is  a  passion,  or  involuntary 
operation  of  the  mind,  and,  like  other  passions,  its 
intcnsit)'  is  precisely  j)roportionate  to  the  degrees 
of  excitement.  Volition  is  essential  to  merit  or 
demerit.  But  the  Cluistian  religion  attaches  the 
highest  possible  degrees  of  merit  and  demerit  to 
that  which  is  worthy  of  neither,  and  which  is 
totally  unconnected  with  the  peculiar  faculty  of  the 
mind,  whose  presence  is  essential  to  their  being. 

Christianity  was  intended  to  refonn  the  world : 
had  an  all-wise  Being  planned  it,  nothing  is  more 
improbable  than  that  it  should  have  failed:  omni- 
science would  infallibly  have  foreseen  the  inutility 
of  a  scheme  which  experience  demonstrates,  to  tliis 
age,  to  have  been  utterly  unsuccessful. 

Christianity  inculcates  the  necessitj'  of  supplicat- 
ing the  Deity.  Prayer  may  be  considered  under  two 
points  of  view ;  as  an  endeavour  to  change  the  in- 
tentions of  God,  or  as  a  formal  testimony  of  our 
obedience.  But  the  former  case  supposes  that  the 
caprices  of  a  limited  intelligence  can  occasionally 
instruct  the  Creator  of  the  world  how  to  regulate 
the  universe ;  and  the  latter,  a  certain  degree  of 
servility  analogous  to  the  loyalty  demanded  by 
earthly  tyrants.  Obedience  indeed  is  only  the 
pitiful  and  cowardly  egotism  of  him  who  thinks 
that  he  can  do  something  better  than  reason. 

Christianity,  like  all  other  religions,  rests  upon 
miracles,  prophecies,  and  martyrdoms.  No  religion 
ever  existed,  which  had  not  its  prophets,  its  attested 
miracles,  and  above  all,  crowds  of  devotees  who 
would  bear  patiently  the  most  horrible  tortures  to 
prove  its  authenticity.  It  should  appear  that  in  no 
case  can  a  discriminating  mind  subscribe  to  the 
genuineness  of  a  miracle.  A  miracle  is  an  infi-ac- 
tion  of  nature's  law,  by  a  supernatural  cause ;  by  a 
cause  acting  beyond  that  eternal  circle  within 
which  all  things  are  included.  God  breaks  through 
the  law  of  nature,  that  he  may  convince  mankind 
of  the  truth  of  that  revelation,  which,  in  spite  of 
liis  precautions,  has  been,  since  its  introduction,  the 
subject  of  unceasing  schism  and  cavil. 

Miracles  resolve  themselves  into  the  following 
question :  * — Whether  it  is  more  probable  the  laws 
of  nature,  liitherto  so  immutably  harmonious,  should 
have  undergone  violation,  or  mat  a  man  should 
have  told  a  lie  1  Whether  it  is  more  probable 
that  we  are  ignorant  of  the  natural  cause  of  an 
event,  or  that  we  know  the  supernatural  one  1  That, 


*  See  Hume's  Essays,  vol.  ii.  page  121. 
7 


in  old  times,  when  the  powers  of  nature  were  less 
known  than  at  present,  a  certain  set  of  men  were 
themselves  deceived,  or  had  some  hidden  motive 
for  deceiving  others  ;  or  that  God  begat  a  son,  who, 
in  his  legislation,  measuring  merit,  by  belief,  evi- 
denced himself  to  be  totally  ignorant  of  the  powers 
of  the  human  mind  —  of  what  is  voluntary,  and 
what  is  the  contrary  1 

We  have  many  instances  of  men  telling  lies ; — 
none  of  an  intraction  of  nature's  laws,  those  laws 
of  whose  government  alone  we  have  any  knowledge 
or  experience.  The  records  of  all  nations  afford 
innumerable  instances  of  men  deceiving  others  either 
from  vanity  or  interest,  or  themselves  being  deceived 
by  the  limitedness  of  their  views  and  their  ignor- 
ance of  natural  causes  ;  but  where  is  the  accredited 
case  of  God  having  come  upon  earth  to  give  the 
lie  to  his  ovm  creations  1  There  would  be  some- 
thing truly  wonderful  in  the  appearance  of  a  ghost ; 
hut  the  assertion  of  a  child  that  he  saw  one  as  he 
passed  through  the  churchyard  is  universally  admit- 
ted to  be  less  miraculous. 

But  even  supposing  that  a  man  should  raise  a 
dead  body  to  life  before  your  eyes,  and  on  this  fact 
rest  his  claim  to  being  considered  the  son  of  God  ; 
— the  Humane  Society  restores  drowned  persons, 
and  as  it  makes  no  mj'stery  of  the  method  it  em- 
ploys, its  members  are  not  mistaken  for  the  sons  of 
God.  All  that  we  have  a  right  to  infer  from  our 
ignorance  of  the  cause  of  any  event  is,  that  we  dj) 
not  know  it :  had  the  Mexicans  attended  to  this 
simple  rule  when  they  heard  the  cannon  of  the 
Spaniards,  they  would  not  have  considered  them  as 
gods  :  the  experiments  of  modem  chemistry  would 
have  defied  the  wisest  philosophers  of  ancient 
Greece  and  Rome  to  have  accounted  for  them  on 
natural  principles.  An  author  of  strong  common 
sense  has  observed,  that  "  a  miracle  is  no  miracle 
at  second-hand ;"  he  might  have  added,  that  a  mira- 
cle is  no  miracle  in  any  case  ;  for  until  we  are  ac- 
quainted with  all  natural  causes,  we  have  no  reason 
to  imagine  others. 

There  remains  to  be  considered  another  proof 
of  Christianity — prophecy.  A  book  is  written  be- 
fore a  certain  event,  in  wliich  tliis  event  is  foretold  ; 
how  could  the  prophet  have  foreknown  it  without 
inspiration  1  how  could  he  have  been  inspired  with- 
out God  1  The  greatest  stress  is  laid  on  the  pro- 
phecies of  Moses  and  Hosea  on  the  dispersion  of 
the  Jew^s,  and.  that  of  Isaiah  concerning  the  coming 
of  the  Messiah.  The  prophecy  of  Moses  is  a  collec- 
tion of  every  possible  cursing  and  blessing,  and  it 
is  so  far  from  being  marvellous  that  the  one  of 
dispersion  should  have  been  fulfilled,  that  it  would 
have  been  more  surprising  if,  out  of  all  these,  none 
should  have  taken  elfect.  In  Deuteronomy,  chap, 
xxviii.  vcr.  64,  where  Moses  explicitly  foretells  the 
dispersion,  he  states  that  they  shall  there  serve  gods 
of  wood  and  stone  :  "  And  the  Lord  shall  scatter 
thee  among  all  people,  from  the  one  end  of  the 
earth  even  to  the  other,  and  there  thou  shalt  serve 
other  gods,  which  neither  thou  nor  thy  fathers  have 
known,  even  gods  of  ivond  and  stone."  The  Jews 
arc  at  this  day  remarkably  tenacious  of  their  reli- 
gion. Moses  also  declares  that  they  shall  be  sub- 
E 


50 


NOTES    ON    QUEEN    MAB. 


jcctcd  to  tlicse  curses  for  disobedience  to  his  ritual : 
'•  And  it  sliall  come  to  pass,  if  thou  wilt  not  heark- 
en unto  tlie  voice  of  the  Lord  thy  God,  to  obser\'e 
to  do  all  the  commandments  and  statutes  wliich  I 
command  you  this  day,  that  all  these  curses  shall 
come  upon  thee  and  overtake  thee."  Is  this  the 
real  reason  1  The  tliird,  fourth,  and  fifth  chapters 
of  Hosca  are  a  piece  of  immodest  confession.  The 
indelicate  type  might  apply  in  a  hundred  senses  to 
a  hundred  things.  The  fifty-third  chapter  of  Isaiah 
is  more  explicit,  yet  it  does  not  exceed  in  clearness 
the  oracles  of  Dclphos.  The  historical  proof,  that 
Moses,  Isaiah,  and  Hosea  did  write  when  they  are 
said  to  have  written,  is  far  from  beuig  clear  and 
circumstantial. 

But  prophecy  requires  proof  in  its  cli;iracter  as  a 
miracle  ;  we  have  no  right  to  suppose  that  a  man 
foreknew  future  events  from  God,  until  it  is  de- 
monstrated that  he  neither  could  know  them  by  his 
own  exertions,  nor  that  the  writings  which  contain 
the  prediction  could  possibly  have  been  fabricated 
after  the  event  pretended  to  be  foretold.  It  is  more 
probable  that  writings,  pretending  to  divine  inspira- 
tion, should  have  been  fabricated  after  the  fulfd- 
ment  of  their  pretended  prediction,  than  that  they 
should  have  really  been  divinely  inspired  ;  \yhen  we 
consider  that  the  latter  supposition  makes  God  at 
once  the  creator  of  the  human  mind  and  ignorant 
of  its  primary  powers,  particularly  as  we  have 
immberless  instances  of  false  religions,  and  forged 
prophecies  of  things  long  past,  and  no  accredited 
case  of  God  having  conversed  with  men  directly  or 
indirectly.  It  is  also  possible  that  the  description 
of  an  event  might  have  foregone  its  occurence  ;  but 
this  is  far  from  being  a  legitimate  proof  of  a  di\ine 
revelation,  as  many  men,  not  pretending  to  the 
character  of  a  prophet,  have  nevertheless,  in  this 
sense,  prophesied. 

Lord  Chesterfield  was  never  yet  taken  for  a  pro- 
phet, even  by  a  bishop,  yet  he  uttered  this  remark- 
able prediction  ; — "  The  despotic  government  of 
France  is  screwed  up  to  the  highest  pitch  ;  a  revolu- 
tion is  fast  approaching ;  that  revolution,  I  am  con- 
vinced, will  be  radical  and  sanguinary."  This  ap- 
peared in  the  letters  of  the  prophet  long  before  the 
accomplishment  of  this  wonderful  prediction.  Now, 
have  these  particulars  come  to  pass,  or  have  they 
not  1  If  they  have,  how  could  the  earl  have  fore- 
known them  witliout  inspiration  ]  If  we  admit  the 
truth  of  the  Christian  religion  on  testimony  such  as 
this,  we  must  admit,  on  the  same  strength  of  evi- 
dence, that  God  has  aflixed  the  highest  rewards  to 
belief,  and  the  eternal  tortures  of  the  never-dying 
worm  to  disbelief ;  both  of  which  have  been  de- 
monstrated to  be  involuntary. 

The  last  proof  of  the  Christian  religion  depends 
on  the  influence  of  the  Holy  Ghost.  Theologians 
divide  the  influence  of  the  Holy  Ghost  into  its  ordi- 
nary and  extraordinary  modes  of  operation.  The 
latter  is  supposed  to  be  that  which  inspired  the  pro- 
phets and  apostles  ;  and  the  former  to  be  the  grace 
of  God,  which  summarily  makes  kjiown  the  truth 
of  his  revelation,  to  those  whose  minds  are  fitted  for 
its  reception  by  a  submissive  perusal  of  his  word. 
Persons  convinced  m  this  manner,  can  do  any  tiling 


but  account  for  tht  ir  conviction,  describe  the  time  at 
wliich  it  happened,  or  the  manner  in  which  it  came 
upon  them.  It  is  sujiposed  to  enter  the  mind  by 
other  channels  than  those  of  the  senses,  and  there- 
fore professed  to  be  superior  to  reason  founded  on 
their  expcric^ice. 

Admitting,  however,  the  usefulness  or  possibility 
of  a  divine  revelation,  unless  we  demolish  the  found- 
ations of  all  human  knowledge,  it  is  requisite  that 
our  reason  should  previously  dcmonsti-ate  its  genu- 
incss  ;  for,  before  we  extinguish  the  steady  ray  of 
reason  and  common  sense,  it  is  fit  that  we  should 
discover  whether  we  cannot  do  without  their  as- 
sistance, whether  or  no  there  be  any  other  which 
may  suffice  to  guide  us  through  the  labyrinth  of 
life ;  *  for,  if  a  man  is  to  be  inspired  upon  all  oc- 
casions, if  he  is  to  be  sure  of  a  thing  because  he  is 
sure,  if  the  ordinary  operations  of  the  spirit  are  not 
to  be  considered  very  extraordinary  modes  of  demon- 
stration, if  enthusiasm  is  to  usurp  tlie  place  of 
proof,  and  madness  that  of  sanit}',  all  reasoning  is 
superfluous.  The  Mahometan  dies  fighting  for  his 
prophet,  the  Indian  immolates  himself  at  the  chariot- 
wheels  of  Bralima,  the  Hottentot  worships  an  insect, 
the  Negro  a  bunch  of  feathers,  the  Mexican  sacri- 
fices human  victims  !  Their  decree  of  conviction 
must  certainly  be  very  strong :  it  camiot  arise  frtfin 
conviction,  it  must  from  feelings,  the  reward  of  their 
prayers.  If  each  of  these  should  aflirm,  m  opposi- 
tion to  the  strongest  possible  arguments,  that  in- 
spiration carried  internal  evidence,  I  fear  their  in- 
spired brethren,  the  orthodox  missionaries,  would 
be  so  uncharitable  as  to  pronounce  them  obstinate. 

Miracles  cannot  be  received  as  testimonies  of  a 
disputed  fact,  because  all  lumian  testimony  has  ever 
been  msufficient  to  establish  the  possi!)ility  of  mira- 
cles. That,  which  is  incapable  of  proof  itself,  is 
no  proof  of  any  thing  else.  Prophecy  has  also  been 
rejected  by  the  test  of  reason.  Those,  then,  who 
have  been  actually  inspired,  are  the  only  tme  be- 
lievers in  the  Cliristian  religion. 

Mox  mimine  viso 
Virsinci  tumuere  sinus,  inniiptaque  mater 
Arcaiio  stupuit  conipleri  viscera  partu, 
Aurtnrem  parilura  siiiim.     Mortalia  corda 
Artificcm  texere  poli,  latuitque  sub  uno 
Pectore,  qui  totum  late  complectitur  orbem. 

Claudiani  Carmen  Paschale, 

Does  not  so  monstrous  and  disgusting  an  ab- 
surdity carry  its  own  infamy  and  refutation  with 
itself?  B^ 

P.  33,  col.  2,  1.  59. 

Him  (slill  from  hope  to  hope  the  bli.ts  piirsuinn. 
Which,  from  the  eihaustless  store  of  human  tteal 
Dairns  on  the  virtuous  mind)  the  thoughts  that  rise 
In  time-destroying  injinitcness,  gift 
With  self-enshrined  eternity,  SfC. 

Time  is  our  coiisciousness  of  the  succession  of 
ideas  in  our  mind.* Vivid  .sensation,  of  eitlicr  j)ain 
or  pleasure,  makes  the  time  seem  long,  as  the  com- 
mon phrase  is,  because  it  renders  us  more  acutely 

*  See  Locke's  Essay  on  the  Human  Understanding, 
book  iv.  chap.xix.  on  Entiiusiasin. 


NOTES    ON    QUEEN    MAB. 


51 


conscious  of  our  ideas.  If  a  miiul  l)e  conscious  of 
a  hundred  ideas  during  one  minute  by  the  clock, 
and  of  two  hundred  during  another,  the  latter  of 
these  spaces  would  actually  occupy  so  much  greater 
extent  in  the  mind  as  two  exceed  one  in  quantity. 
If,  therefore,  the  human  mind,  by  any  future  im- 
provement of  its  sensibility  should  become  conscious 
of  an  infinite  number  of  ideas  iu  a  minute,  that  mi- 
nute would  be  eternity.  I  do  not  hence  iider  that 
the  actual  space  between  the  birth  and  death  of  a 
man  will  ever  be  prolonged;  but  that  his  sensibility 
is  perfectible,  and  that  the  lunnber  of  ideas  which 
his  mind  is  capable  of  receiving  is  indefinite.  One 
man  is  stretched  on  the  rack  during  twelve  hours, 
another  sleeps  soundly  in  his  bed  :  the  ditference  of 
time  perceived  by  these  two  persons  is  immense  ;  one 
hardly  will  believe  that  half-an-hour  has  elapsed, 
the  other  could  credit  that  centuries  had  flown 
during  liis  agony.  Thus  the  life  of  a  man  of  wtue 
and  talent,  who  should  die  in  his  thirtieth  year,  is, 
with  regard  to  lus  own  feelings,  longer  than  that  of 
a  miserable  priest-ridden  slave,  who  dreams  out  a 
century  of  dulness.  The  one  has  pei-petually  cul- 
tivated his  mental  faculties,  has  rendered  himself 
master  of  his  thoughts,  can  abstract  and  generalize 
amid  the  lethargy  of  every-day  business  ; — the  other 
can  slumber  over  the  brightest  moments  of  his  be- 
mg,  and  is  unable  to  remember  the  happiest  hour 
of  liis  life.  Perhaps  the  perishing  ephemeron  en- 
joys a  longer  life  than  the  tortoise. 

Dark  flood  of  time  '. 
Roll  as  it  listeth  thee — I  measure  not 
By  months  or  moments  thy  ambiguous  course, 
Another  may  stand  by  me  on  the  brink, 
And  watch  the  bubble  whirled  beyond  his  ken 
That  pauses  at  my  feet.    The  sense  of  love, 
The  thirst  for  action,  and  the  impassioned  thought, 
Prolong  my  being  ;  if  I  wake  no  more. 
My  life  more  actual  living  will  contain 
Than  some  gray  veterans  of  the  world's  cold  school, 
Whose  listless  hours  unprofitably  roll, 
By  one  enthusiast  feeling  unredeemed. 

See  Godwin's  Pol.  Just.  vol.  i.  page  411  ;  and 
Condorcet,  Esquisse  d'un  Tableau  liistorique 
des  Progrcs  de  V Esprit  Humain,  epoque  ix. 

P.  34,  col.  1.  1.  4. 

jVo  longer  now 
He  slays  the  lamb  that  looks  him  in  the  face. 

I  hold  that  the  depravity  of  the  physical  and 
moral  nature  of  man  originated  in  his  unnatural 
habits  of  life.  The  origin  of  man,  like  that  of  the 
universe  of  which  he  is  a  part,  is  enveloped  in  im- 
penetrable mystery.  His  generations  either  had  a 
beginning,  or  they  had  not.  The  weight  of  evi- 
dence in  favour  of  each  of  these  suppositions  seems 
tolerably  equal ;  and  it  is  perfectly  unimportant  to 
the  present  argument  which  is  assumed.  The  lan- 
guage spoken,  however,  by  the  mythology  of  nearly 
all  religions  seems  to  prove,  that  at  some  distant 
period  man  forsook  the  path  of  nature,  and  sacrificed 
the  purity  and  happiness  of  his  being  to  unnatural 
appetites.  The  date  of  this  event  seems  to  have 
also  been  that  of  some  great  change  in  the  chmates 
of  the  earth,  with  wliich  it  has  an  obvious  corres- 


pondence. The  allegory  of  Adam  aixl  Phe  eating 
of  the  tree  of  evil,  and  entailing  uj)oii  their  posterity 
the  wrath  of  God  and  the  loss  of  everlasting  life, 
admits  of  no  other  exj)lanation  than  the  disea.se  and 
crime  that  have  flowed  from  unnatural  diet.  Milton 
was  so  well  aware  of  this,  that  he  makes  Raphael 
thus  exhibit  to  Adam  the  consequence  of  his  dis- 
obedience. 


Immediately  a  place 

Before  his  eyes  appeared,  sad,  noisome,  dark 
A  lazar-house  it  seemed,  wherein  were  laid  ; 
Numbers  of  all  diseased,  all  maladies 
Of  ghastly  spasm  or  racking  torture,  qualms 
Of  heart-sick  agony,  all  feverous  kinds, 
Convulsions,  epilepsies,  fierce  catarrhs. 
Intestine  stone  and  ulcer,  colic  pangs. 
Demoniac  frenzy,  moping  melancholy, 
And  moon-struck  madness,  pining  atrophy. 
Marasmus,  and  wide-wasting  pestilence. 
Dropsies,  asthmas,  and  joint-racking  rheums. 

— And  how  many  thousands  more  might  not  be 
added  to  this  frightful  catalogue  ! 

The  story*  of  Prometheus  is  one  likewise  which, 
although  universally  admitted  to  be  allegorical,  has 
never  been  satisfactorily  explained.  Prometheus 
stole  fire  from  heaven,  and  was  chained  for  this  crime 
to  Mount  Caucasus,  where  a  vulture  continually 
devoured  liis  liver,  that  giTw  to  meet  his  hunger. 
Hesiod  says,  that  before  the  time  of  Prometheus, 
mankind  were  exempt  from  suilLning;  that  they 
enjoyed  a  vigorous  youth,  and  that  death,  when  at 
length  it  came,  approached  like  sleep,  and  gently 
closed  their  eyes.  Again,  so  general  was  this  opi- 
nion, that  Horace,  a  poet  of  the  Augustan  age, 
writes — 

Audax  omnia  perpeti. 
Gens  huniana  ruit  per  vetitum  nefas. 

Audax  lapeti  genus 
Ignem  fraude  mala  gentibus  intulit : 

Post  ignem  a^theria  domo 
Subiluctum,  macies  et  nova  febrium 

Terris  incubuit  cohort, 
Semotique  prius  tarda  necessitas 

Lethi  corripuit  gradum. 

How  plain  a  language  is  spoken  by  all  this! 
Prometheus ,  (who  represents  the  human  race) 
efl[ected  some  great  change  in  the  condition  of  his 
nature,  and  apphed  fire  to  culinarv'  purposes;  thus 
inventing  an  expedient  for  screening  fi'om  his  dis- 
gust the  horrors  of  the  shambles.  From  this 
moment  his  vitals  were  devoured  by  the  vultiu-e  of 
disease.  It  consumed  his  being  in  every  shape  of 
its  loathsome  and  infinite  variety,  inducing  the 
soul-quelling  sinkings  of  premature  and  Aiolent 
death.  All  vice  arose  from  the  ruin  of  healthful 
innocence. — Tyranny,  superstition,  commerce,  and 
inequahty,  were  then  first  known,  when  reason 
vainly  attempted  to  guide  the  wanderings  of  ex- 
acerbated passion.  I  conclude  this  part  of  the 
subject  with  an  abstract  from  Mr.  Newton's  De- 
fence of  Vegetable  Regimen,  from  whom  I  have 
borrowed  this  interpretation  of  the  fable  of 
Prometheus. 

"  Making  allowance  for  such  transposition  of  the 
events  of  the  allegory  as  time  might  produce  after 


52 


NOTES    ON    QUEEN    MAB. 


the  important  truths  were  forgotten,  which  tliis 
portion  of  the  ancient  mythology  was  intended  to 
transmit,  the  drift  of  the  fahle  seems  to  he  this: — 
Alan  at  his  creation  was  endowed  with  the  gift  of 
peqjctiial  youth ;  that  is,  he  was  not  formed  to  be  a 
sickly  suffering  creature  as  we  now  sec  him,  but  to 
enjoy  health,  and  to  sink  by  slow  degrees  into  the 
bosom  of  his  parent  earth  without  disease  or  pain. 
Prometheus  first  taught  the  use  of  animal  food 
(Primus  bovem  occidit  Prometheus*)  and  of  fire, 
with  which  to  render  it  more  digestible  and  pleasing 
to  the  taste.  Jupiter,  and  the  rest  of  the  gods,  for- 
seeing  the  consetjuences  of  these  inventions,  were 
amused  or  irritated  at  the  short-sighted  dc^■iccs  of  the 
newly-formed  creature,  and  left  him  to  experience 
the  sad  effects  of  them.  Thirst,  the  necessary 
concomitant  of  a  flesh  diet,  (perhaps  of  all  diet 
vitiated  by  culinary  preparation.)  ensued;  water 
was  resorted  to,  and  man  forfeited  the  inestimable 
gift  of  health  which  he  had  received  from  heaven : 
he  became  diseased,  the  partaker  of  a  precarious 
existence,  and  no  longer  descended  slowly  to  his 
grave."! 

But  just  disease  to  luxury  succeeds  ; 
And  every  death  its  own  avenger  hreeds, 
The  fury  pnssions  from  that  blood  began, 
And  turned  on  man  a  fiercer  savage — man. 

Man,  and  the  animals  whom  he  has  infected 
with  his  society  or  depraved  by  his  dominion,  are 
alone  diseased.  The  wild  hog,  the  mouflon,  the 
bison,  and  the  wolf,  are  perfectly  exempt  from 
malady,  and  invariably  die  either  from  external 
\4olence  or  natural  old  age.  But  the  domestic  h6g, 
the  sheep,  the  cow,  and  the  dog,  are  subject  to  an 
incredible  variety  of  distempers ;  and,  like  the  cor- 
rupters of  their  nature,'  have  physicians  who 
thrive  upon  their  miseries.  The  supereminencc 
of  man  is  hke  Satan's,  the  supereminencc  of  pain ; 
and  the  majority  of  his  species,  doomed  to  penury, 
disease,  and  crime,  have  reason  to  curse  the  un- 
toward event,  that,  by  enabling  him  to  communicate 
his  sensations,  raised  him  above  the  level  of  his 
fellow-animals.  But  the  steps  that  have  been 
taken  are  irrevocable.  The  whole  of  htunan  science 
is  comprised  in  one  question :  How  can  the  ad- 
vantages of  intellect  and  civilization  be  reconciled 
with  the  lil)erty  and  pure  pleasures  of  natural  life  1 
How  can  we  take  the  benefits,  and  reject  the  evils, 
of  the  system  which  is  now  interwoven  with  all 
the  fibres  of  our  being  ? — I  believe  that  abstinence 
from  animal  food  and  spirituous  liquors  would  in 
a  groat  measure  capacitate  us  for  the  solution  of 
this  imporUint  question. 

It  is  true,  that  mental  and  bodily  derangement 
is  attributable  in  part  to  other  deviations  from  recti- 
tude and  nature  than  those  which  concern  diet 
The  mistakes  cherished  by  society  respcctmg  the 
connexion  of  the  sexes,  whence  the  misery  and 
diseases  of  unsatisfied  celibacy,  uncnjoying  prostitu- 
tion, and  the  premature  arrival  of  puberty,  neces- 
sarily spring:   the  putrid  atmosphere  of  crowded 

♦  Plin.  Nat.  Hist  lib.  vii.  sect.  57. 
+  Return  to  Nature.     Cadell,  1811. 


cities ;  the  exhalations  of  chemical  processes ;  the 
mufilinp  of  our  bodies  in  superfluous  apparel;  the 
absurd  treatment  of  infants; — all  those,  and  innu- 
merable other  causes,  contribute  their  mite  to  the 
mass  of  human  evil. 

Comparative  anatomy  teaches  us  that  man  re- 
sembles frugivorous  animals  in  every  thing,  and 
carnivorous  in  nothing;  he  has  neither  claws 
wherewith  to  seize  his  prey,  nor  distinct  and  pointed 
teeth  to  tear  the  living  fibre.  A  mandarin  "  of  the 
first  class,"  with  nails  two  inches  long,  would  pro- 
bably find  them  alone  inctlicicnt  to  hold  even  a 
hare.  After  every  subterfijge  of  gluttony,  the  bull 
must  be  degraded  into  the  ox,  and  the  ram  into 
the  wether,  by  an  unnatural  and  inhuman  opera- 
tion, that  the  flaccid  fibre  may  offer  a  fainter  resist- 
ance to  rebellious  nature.  It  is  only  by  softening 
and  disguising  dead  flesh  by  culinarv'  preparation, 
that  it  is  rendered  susceptible  of  mastication  or  di- 
gestion ;  and  that  the  sight  of  its  bloody  juices  and 
raw  horror  does  not  excite  intolerable  loathing  and 
disgust.  Let  the  advocate  of  animal  food  force 
himself  to  a  decisive  experiment  on  its  fitness,  and, 
as  Plutarch  recommends,  tear  a  living  lamb  with 
his  teeth,  and  ])lunging  his  head  into  its  vitals,  slake 
his  thir.5t  with  the  steaming  blood ;  when  fresh 
from  the  deed  of  horror,  let  him  revert  to  the  irre- 
sistible instinct  of  nature  that  would  rise  in  judg- 
ment against  it,  and  say,  Nature  formed  me  for 
such  work  as  tliis.  Then,  and  only,  would  he  be 
consistent. 

Man  resembles  no  carnivorous  animal.  There 
is  no  exception,  unless  man  be  one,  to  the  rule  of 
herbivorous  animals  having  cellulated  colons. 

The  ourang-outang  perfectly  resembles  man 
both  in  the  order  and  number  of  his  teeth.  The 
ourang-outang  is  the  most  anthropomorphous  of  the 
ape  tribe,  all  of  which  are  strictly  fi-ugivorous. 
There  is  no  other  species  of  animals,  which  five  on 
different  food,  in  which  this  analog)'  exists.*  In 
many  frugivorous  animals,  the  canine  teeth  are 
more  pointed  and  distinct  than  those  of  man.  The 
resemblance  also  of  the  human  stomach  to  that  of 
the  ourang-outang,  is  greater  than  to  that  of  any 
other  animal. 

The  intestines  are  also  identical  with  those  of 
herbivorous  animals,  which  present  a  larger  surface 
for  absorption,  and  have  ample  and  cellulated 
colons.  The  cxcum  also,  though  short,  is  larger 
than  that  of  carnivorous  animals ;  and  even  here 
the  ourang-outang  retains  its  accu.stomed  similarity. 

The  .structure  of  the  human  frame  then  is  that 
of  one  fitted  to  a  pure  vegetable  diet  in  every 
essential  particular.  It  is  true,  that  the  reluctance 
to  abstain  from  animal  food,  in  those  who  have 
been  long  accustomed  to  its  stimulus,  is  so  great  m 
some  persons  of  weak  minds,  as  to  be  scarcely 
overcome ;  but  this  is  far  fi-om  being  any  arcfuinent 
in  its  favour.  A  lamb,  which  was  fed  for  some 
time  on  flesh  by  a  ship's  crew,  refused  its  natural 
diet  at  the  end  of  tlie  voyage.  There  are  numerous 
instiinces  of  horses,  sheep,  oxen,  and  even  wood- 


♦  Cuvier,  I.egons  d'Anat.  Comp.  torn.  iii.  pages  169, 
373,  448,  465,  480.     Rees's  Cyclopsdia,  article  "  Man .'' 


NOTES    ON    QUEEN    MAB. 


53 


pigeons,  having  been  taught  to  live  upon  flesh, 
until  they  have  loathed  their  natural  aliment. 
Young  children  evidently  prefer  pastry,  oranges, 
apples,  and  other  fruit,  to  the  flesh  of  animals; 
until,  by  the  gradual  depravation  of  the  digestive 
organs  the  free  use  of  vegetables  has  for  a  time 
produced  serious  inconveniences; /or  a  time, I  say, 
since  there  never  was  an  instance  wherein  a  change, 
from  spirituous  liquors  and  animal  food  to  vegetables 
and  pure  water,  has  failed  ultimately  to  invigorate 
the  body,  by  rendering  its  juices  bland  and  con- 
sentaneous, and  to  restore  to  the  mind  that  cheer- 
fulness and  elasticity' which  not  one  in  fd'ty  possesses 
on  the  present  system.  A  love  of  strong  liquors  is 
also  with  difficulty  taught  to  infants.  Almost  every 
one  remembers  the  wry  faces  which  the  lirst  glass 
of  port  produced.  Unsopliisticated  instinct  is  in- 
variably unerring;  but  to  decide  on  the  fitness  of 
animal  food  from  the  per^-erted  appetites  which  its 
constrained  adoption  produces,  is  to  make  the 
criminal  a  judge  of  his  own  cause ;  it  is  even  worse ; 
for  it  is  appealing  to  the  infatuated  drunkard  in  a 
question  of  the  salubrity  of  brandy. 

Wliat  is  the  cause  of  morbid  action  in  the  animal 
system  1  Not  the  air  we  breathe,  for  our  fellow- 
denizens  of  nature  breathe  the  same  uninjured ;  not 
the  water  we  drink,  (if  remote  from  the  pollutions 
of  man  and  his  inventions,*)  for  the  animals  drink 
it  too ;  not  the  earth  we  tread  upon ;  not  the  unob- 
scured  sight  of  glorious  nature,  in  the  wood,  the 
field,  or  the  expanse  of  sky  and  ocean ;  nothing  that 
we  are  or  do  in  common  with  the  undiscased  in- 
habitants of  the  forest ;  but  something  then  wherein 
we  differ  from  them ;  our  habit  of  altering  our  food 
by  fire,  so  that  our  appetite  is  no  longer  a  just 
criterion  for  the  fitness  of  its  gratification.  Except 
in  children,  there  remain  no  traces  of  that  instinct 
which  determines,  in  all  other  animals,  what  aliment 
is  natural  or  otherwise ,  and  so  perfectly  obliterated 
are  they  in  the  reasoning  adults  of  our  species,  that 
it  has  become  necessary  to  urge  considerations 
drawn  from  comparative  anatomy  to  prove  that  we 
are  naturally  frugivorous. 

Crime  is  madness.  Madness  is  disease.  When- 
ever the  cause  of  disease  shall  be  discovered,  the 
root,  firom  which  all  vice  and  misery  have  so  long 
overshadowed  the  globe,  will  lie  bare  to  the  axe. 
All  the  exertions  of  man,  from  that  moment,  may 
be  considered  as  tenthng  to  the  clear  profit  of  his 
species.  No  sane  mind  in  a  sane  body  resolves 
upon  a  real  crime.  It  is  a  man  of  violent  passions, 
blood-shot  eyes,  and  swollen  veins,  that  alone  can 
grasp  the  knife  of  murder.  The  system  of  a  simple 
diet  promises  no  Utopian  advantages.  It  is  no  mere 
reform  of  legislation,  whilst  the  furious  passions 
and  evil  propensities  of  the  human  heart,  in  which 
it  had  iU  origin,  are  still  unassuaged.  It  strikes  at 
the  root  of  all  evil,  and  is  an  experiment  which 

♦  The  necessity  of  resorting  to  some  means  of  purify- 
in?  water,  and  the  diseases  which  arise  from  its  adulte- 
ration in  civilized  countries,  are  sulTicienlly  apparent. 
See  Dr.  Lainbe's  Reports  on  Cancer.  I  do  not  assent 
that  the  use  of  water  is  in  itself  unnalural.  hut  that  the 
nnperverled  palate  would  swallow  no  li(iuiU  capable 
of  occasioning  disease. 


may  be  tried  with  success  not  alone  by  nations, 
but  by  small  societies,  families,  and  even  individuals. 
In  no  cases  has  a  return  to  vegetable  diet  produced 
the  slightest  injury ;  in  most  it  has  been  attended 
with  changes  uiidcniahly  beneficial.  Should  ever 
a  physician  be  born  with  the  genius  of  Jjockcjl  am 
persuaded  that  he  might  trace  all  bodily  and  mental 
derangements  to  our  unnatural  habits,  as  clearly 
as  that  philosopher  has  traced  all  knowledge  to 
sensation.  What  prolific  sources  of  disea.sc  are 
not  those  mineral  and  vegetable  poisons  that  have 
been  introduced  for  its  extirpation !  How  many 
thousands  have  become  murderers  and  robbers, 
bigots  and  domestic  tyrants,  dissolute  and  aban- 
doned adventurers,  from  the  use  of  fermented 
liquors!  who,  had  they  slaked  their  thirst  only  with 
pure  water,  would  have  lived  but  to  diffu.se  the 
happiness  of  their  own  unpervertcd  feelings  !  How 
many  groundless  opinions  and  absurd  institutions 
have  received  a  general  sanction  from  the  sottish- 
ness  aird  the  intemperance  of  individuals !  Who 
will  assert  that,  had  the  populace  of  Paris  satisfied 
their  hunger  at  the  ever-furnished  table  of  vegetable 
nature,  they  would  have  lent  their  brutal  suilerings 
to  the  proscription-list  of  Robespierre  1  Could  a 
set  of  men,  whose  passions  were  not  perverted  by 
unnatural  stimuli,  look  with  coolness  on  an  auto 
dafe?  Is  it  to  be  believed  that  a  being  of  gentle 
feelings,  rising  from  his  meal  of  roots,  would  take 
delight  in  sports  of  blood  1  Was  Nero  a  man  of 
temperate  life  1  Could  you  read  calm  health  in 
his  check,  flashed  with  ungovernable  propensities 
of  hatred  for  the  human  race  ]  Did  Muley  Jsmael's 
pulse  beat  evenly,  was  his  skin  transparent,  did 
his  eyes  beam  with  healthfulness,  and  its  invari- 
able concomitants,  cheerfulness  and  benignity "? 
Though  history  has  decided  none  of  these  questions, 
a  child  could  not  hesitate  to  answer  in  the  negative. 
Surely  the  bile-suflused  cheek  of  Buonaparte,  Ids 
wrinkled  brow,  and  yellow  eye,  the  ceaseless  in- 
quietude of  his  nervous  system,  speak  no  less  plainly 
the  character  of  his  unresting  ambition,  than  his 
murders  and  his  victories.  It  is  impossible,  had 
Buonaparte  descended  from  a  race  of  vegetable 
feeders,  that  he  could  have  had  either  the  mclina- 
tion  or  the  power  to  ascend  the  throne  of  the 
Bourbons.  The  desire  of  tyranny  could  scarcely 
be  excited  in  the  individual,  the  power  to  tyrannize 
would  certainly  not  be  delegated  by  a  society 
neither  frenzied  by  inebriation  nor  rendered  impo- 
tent and  inational  by  disease.  Pregnant  indeed 
with  inexhaustible  calandty  is  the  renunciation  of 
instinct,  as  it  concerns  our  physical  nature ; 
arithmetic  cannot  enumerate,  nor  reason  perhaps 
suspect,  the  multitudinous  sources  of  disease  in 
civilized  life.  Even  common  water,  that  apparently 
innoxious  pabulum,  when  corrupted  by  the  filth 
of  popidous  cities,  is  a  deadly  and  insidious 
destroyer.* 

There  is  no  disease,  bodily  or  mental,  which 
adoption  of  vegetable  diet  and  pure  water  has  not 
infallibly  mitigated  wherever  the  experiment  has 
been  fairly  tried.     Debility  is  gradually  converted 

*  Lambe's  Renorts  on  Cancer. 


54 


NOTES    ON    QUEEN    MAB. 


into  strength,  disease  into  healthfulness,  madness 
in  all  its  hideous  varietj',  from  the  ravina^  of  the 
fettered  maniac  to  the  unaccountable  irrationalities 
of  ill  temper,  that  make  a  hell  of  domestic  life,  into 
a  e^lm  and  consi<lcrate  evenness  of  temper,  that 
alone  misiht  offer  a  certain  pledge  of  the  future 
moral  reformation  of  society.  On  a  natural 
system  of  diet,  old  age  would  he  our  last  and  our  only 
malady  ;  the  term  of  our  existence  would  be  pro- 
tracted ;  we  should  enjoy  life,  and  no  longer  pre- 
clude others  from  the  enjoyment  of  it;  all  sensa- 
tional delights  would  be  infinitely  more  exquisite 
an9  perfect ;  the  very  sense  of  being  would  then 
be  a  continued  pleasure,  such  as  we  now  feel  it 
in  some  few  and  favoured  moments  of  our  youth. 
By  all  that  is  sacred  in  our  hopes  for  the  human 
race,  I  conjure  those  who  love  hapj)mess  and  truth 
to  give  a  fiiir  trial  to  the  vegetable  sj'stem ! 
Reasoning  is  surely  superfluous  on  a  subject 
whose  merits  an  experience  of  six  months  would 
set  for  ever  at  rest.  But  it  is  only  among  the  en- 
lightened and  benevolent  that  so  great  a  saciifice 
of  appetite  and  prejudice  can  be  expected,  even 
though  its  ultimate  excellence  should  not  admit 
of  dispute.  It  is  found  easier,  by  the  short-sighted 
victims  of  disease,  to  palliate  their  torments  by 
medicine,  than  to  prevent  them  by  regimen.  The 
vulgar  of  all  ranks  are  invariably  sensual  and  in- 
docile ;  yet  I  cannot  but  feel  myself  persuaded  that, 
when  the  benefits  of  vegetable  diet  arc  mathemati- 
cally proved  ;  when  it  is  as  clear,  that  those  who 
live  naturally  are  exempt  from  premature  death, 
as  that  one  is  not  nine,  the  most  sottish  of  mankind 
will  feel  a  prefi;rence  towards  a  long  and  tranquil, 
contrasted  with  a  short  and  painful,  life.  On  the 
average,  out  of  sixty  persons,  four  die  in  three 
years.  Hopes  are  entertained  that,  in  April,  1814, 
a  statement  will  be  given,  that  sixty  persons,  all 
having  lived  more  than  three  years  on  vegetables 
and  pure  water,  are  then  in  perfect  health.  More 
than  two  years  have  now  elapsed  ;  not  one  of  them 
has  died ;  no  such  example  will  be  found  in  any 
sixty  persons  taken  at  random.  Seventeen  per- 
sons of  all  ages  Q.\\c.  families  of  Dr.  Lambe  and 
Mr.  Newton)  have  lived  for  seven  years  on  this 
diet  without  a  death,  and  almost  without  the 
slightest  illness.  Surely  when  we  consider  that 
some  of  these  were  infants,  and  one  a  martyr  to 
asthma,  now  nearly  subdued,  we  may  challenge 
any  seventeen  persons  taken  at  random  in  tliis 
city  to  exhibit  a  parallel  case.  Those,  who  may 
have  been  excited  to  question  the  rectitude  of 
established  habits  of  diet  by  these  loose  remarks, 
should  consult  Mr.  Newton's  luminous  and  elo- 
quent essay.* 

When  these  proofs  come  fairly  before  the  world, 
and  are  clearly  seen  by  all  who  understand  arith- 
metic, it  is  scarcely  possible  that  abstinence  from 
aliment  demonstrably  pernicious  should  not  be- 
come universal. — In  proportion  to  the  number  of 
proselytes,  so  will  be  the  weight  of  evidence ;  and, 
when  a  thousand  persons  can  be  produced,  living 


*  Return  to  Nature, or  Defence  of  Vegetable  Regimen. 
Cadell,  1811. 


on  vegetables  and  distilled  water,  who  have  to 
dread  no  disease  but  old  age,  the  world  will  be 
compelled  to  regard  animal  flesh  and  fennented 
liquors  as  slow  but  certain  poisons.  The  change 
which  would  he  produced  by  simpler  habits  on 
political  economy  is  sulhciently  remarkable.  The 
monopolizing  eater  of  animal  flesh  would  no  longer 
destroy  his  constitution  by  devouring  an  acre  at  a 
meal,  and  many  loaves  of  bread  would  cease  to 
contribute  to  gout,  madness,  and  apojilexy,  in  the 
shape  of  a  pint  of  porter,  or  a  dram  of  gin,  when 
appeasing  the  long-protracted  faiTiine  of  the  hard- 
working peasant's  hungry  babes.  The  quantity 
of  nutritious  vegetable  matter,  consumed  in  fatten- 
ing the  carcass  of  an  ox,  would  afford  ten  times 
the  sustenance,  undcpraving  indeed,  and  incapable 
of  generating  disease,  if  gathered  immediately 
from  the  bosom  of  the  earth.  The  most  fertile 
districts  of  the  habitable  globe  are  now  actually 
cultivated  by  men  for  animals,  at  a  delay  and 
waste  of  aliment  absolutely  incapable  of  calcula- 
tion. It  is  only  the  wealthy  that  can,  to  any 
great  degree,  even  now,  indulge  the  unnatural 
craving  for  dead  flesh,  and  they  pay  for  the 
greater  license  of  the  privilege  by  subjection  to 
supernumcrarj'  diseases.  Again,  the  spirit  of  the 
nation,  that  should  take  the  lead  in  this  great  re- 
form, would  insensibly  become  agricultural ;  com- 
merce, with  all  its  vice,  selfi.shness,  and  corruption, 
would  gradually  decline ;  more  natural  habits 
would  produce  gentler  manners,  and  the  excessive 
complication  of  political  relations  would  be  so  Hit 
simplified,  that  every  individual  might  feel  and 
understand  why  he  loved  his  countr}'.  and  took  a 
personal  interest  in  its  welfare.  How  would 
England,  for  example,  depend  on  the  caprices  of 
foreign  rulers,  if  she  contained  within  herself  all 
the  necessaries,  and  despised  whatever  they  pos- 
sessed of  the  luxuries  of  life  ?  How  could  tliey 
starve  her  into  compliance  with  their  views  ?  Of 
what  consequence  would  ^  be  that  they  refused 
to  tiike  her  woollen  manufactures,  when  large  and 
fertile  tracts  of  the  island  ceased  to  be  allotted  to 
the  waste  of  pasturage  1  On  a  natural  system  of 
diet,  we  should  require  no  spices  from  India  ;  no 
wines  from  Portucral,  Spain,  France,  or  Madeira ; 
none  of  those  multitudinous  articles  of  luxury,  for 
which  every  corner  of  the  globe  is  rifled,  and 
which  arc  the  causes  of  so  much  individual  rival- 
.ship,  such  calamitous  and  sanguinarj'  national 
disputes.  In  the  history  of  modern  times,  the 
avarice  of  commercial  monopoly,  no  less  than  the 
ambition  of  weak  and  wicked  chiefs,  seems  to 
have  fomented  the  universal  discord,  to  have  added 
stubbornness  to  the  mistakes  of  cabinets,  and  in- 
docility  to  the  infatuation  of  the  people.  Let  it 
ever  be  remembered,  that  it  is  the  direct  influence 
of  commerce  to  make  the  interval  between  the 
richest  and  the  poorest  man  wider  and  more  un- 
conquerable. Ijct  it  be  remembered,  that  it  is  a 
foe  to  every  thing  of  real  worth  and  excellence  in 
the  human  character.  The  odious  and  disgusting 
aristocracy  of  wealth  is  built  upon  the  ruins  of  all 
that  is  good  in  chivalry  or  republicanism ;  and 
luxury   is   the   foreruiuier   of  a  barbarism  scarce 


NOTES    ON    QUEEN    MAB. 


55 


capable  of  cure.  Is  it,  impossible  to  realize  a  state 
of  society,  wliero  all  the  energies  of  inau  shall  be 
directed  to  the  production  of  his  solid  happiness  ! 
Certainly,  if  this  advantaf^e  (the  object  of  all  poli- 
tical speculation)  be  in  any  dcijrce  attainable,  it 
is  attainable  only  by  a  conmmnity  which  holds 
no  factitious  incentives  to  the  avarice  and  ambi- 
tion of  tlie  few,  and  which  is  internally  organized 
for  the  liberty,  security,  and  comfort  of  the  many. 
None  must  bo  intrusted  with  power  (and  money 
is  the  completest  species  of  power)  who  do  not 
stand  pledged  to  use  it  exclusively  for  the  general 
benefit.  But  the  use  of  animal  flesh  and  fer- 
mented liquors  directly  militates  with  this  equality 
of  the  rights  of  man.  The  peasant  cannot  gratify 
these  fashionable  cravings  without  leaving  his 
family  to  starve.  Without  disease  and  war,  those 
sweeping  curtailers  of  population,  pasturage  would 
include  a  waste  too  great  to  be  afforded.  The 
labour  requisite  to  support  a  family  is  far  lighter* 
than  is  usually  supposed.  The  peasantry  work, 
not  only  for  themselves,  but  for  the  aristocracy, 
the  army,  and  the  manufacturers. 

The  advantage  of  a  reform  in  diet  is  obviously 
greater  than  that  of  any  other.  It  strikes  at  the 
root  of  the  evil.  To  remedy  the  abuses  of  legis- 
lation, before  we  annihilate  the  propensities  by 
which  they  are  produced,  is  to  suppose,  that,  by 
taking  away  the  elVcct,  the  cause  will  cease  to 
operate.  But  the  efficacy  of  this  system  depends 
entirely  on  the  proselytism  of  individuals,  and 
grounds  its  merits,  as  a  benefit  to  the  community, 
upon  the  total  change  of  the  dietetic  habits  in  its 
members.  It  proceeds  securely  from  a  number  of 
particular  cases  to  one  that  is  universal,  and  has 
this  advantage  over  the  contrary  mode,  that  one 
error  does  not  invalidate  all  that  has  gone  before. 

Let  not  too  much,  however,  be  expected  from 
this  system.  The  healthiest  among  us  is  not 
exempt  from  hereditary  disease.  The  most  sym- 
metrical, athletic,  and  long-lived,  is  a  bemg  inex- 
pressibly inferior  to  what  he  would  have  been, 
had  not  the  unnatural  habits  of  his  ancestors 
accumulated  for  him  a  certain  portion  of  malady 
and  deformity.  In  'the  most  perfect  specimen  of 
civilized  man,  something  is  still  found  wanting  by 
the  physiological  critic.  Can  a  return  to  nature, 
then,  instantaneously  eradicate  predispositions 
that  have  been  slowly  taking  root  in  the  silence 
of  innumerable  ages  1 — Indubitably  not.  All  that 
I  contend  for  is,  that,  from  the  moment  of  relin- 
quishing all  unnatural  habit-s,  no  new  disease  is 
generated;  and  that  the  predisposition  to  heredi- 
tary maladies  gradually  perishes  for  want  of  its 
accustomed  supply.  In  cases  of  consumption, 
cancer,   gout,   asthma,  and  scrofula,  such  is  the 

*  It  has  come  under  the  author's  experience,  that 
some  of  the  workmen  on  an  emlimkment  in  North 
Walep,  will)  iij  conseqiii'nee  of  the  inaliility  of  the  pro- 
prietor to  pay  them,  seliiom  received  tlieir  wages,  have 
supported  lanie  families  I)y  cultivating  small  spots  of 
sterile  croinid  l>y  moonliirht.  In  the  notes  to  Pratt's 
poem,  "  Bread  or  the  I'oor,"  is  an  account  of  an  indus- 
trious labourer,  who,  by  workinc  in  a  small  garden,  be- 
fore and  after  his  day's  task,  attained  to  an  enviable 
state  of  independence. 


invariable  tendency  of  a  diet  of  vegetables  and 
jmre  water. 

Those  who  may  be  induced  by  these  remarks 
to  give  the  vegetalile  system  a  fair  trial  should,  in 
the  first  place,  date  the  commencement  of  their 
practice  from  tlie  moment  of  tluur  conviction.  All 
depends  upon  breaking  through  a  pernicious  habit 
resolutely  and  at  once.  Dr.  Trotter*  asserts,  that 
no  drunkard  was  ever  reformed  by  gradually  re- 
linquisliing  his  dram.  Animal  flesh,  in  its  ellbcts 
on  the  human  stomach,  is  analogous  to  a  dram. 
It  is  similar  to  the  kind,  though  differing  in  the 
degree,  of  its  operation.  The  proselyte  to  pure 
diet  must  be  warned  to  expect  a  temporary  dimi- 
nution of  muscular  strength.  The  subtraction  of 
a  powerful  stimulus  will  suffice  to  account  for  this 
event.  But  it  is  only  temporary,  and  is  succeeded 
by  an  equable  capability  for  exertion,  far  surpass- 
ing Ills  former  various  and  fluctuating  strength. 
Above  all,  he  will  acquire  an  easiness  of  breathing, 
by  which  such  exertion  is  performed,  with  a  re- 
markable exemption  from  that  painful  and  difficult 
panting  now  felt  by  almost  every  one  after  hastily 
climbing  an  ordinary  mountain.  He  will  be 
equally  capable  of  bodily  exertion,  or  mental  ap- 
plication, after  as  before  his  simple  meal.  He 
will  feel  none  of  the  narcotic  effects  of  ordinary 
diet.  Irritability,  the  direct  consequence  of  ex- 
hausting stimuli,  would  yield  to  the  power  of 
natural  and  tranquil  impulses.  He  will  no  longer 
pine  under  the  lethargy  of  ennui,  that  unconquer- 
able weariness  of  life,  more  to  be  dreaded  than 
death  itself.  He  will  escape  the  epidemic  mad- 
ness which  broods  over  its  own  injurious  notions 
of  the  Deity,  and  "realizes  the  hell  that  priests 
and  beldams  feign."  Every  man  forms  as  it  were 
his  god  from  his  own  character ;  to  the  divinity 
of  one  of  simple  habits  no  oflering  would  be  more 
acceptable  than  the  happiness  of  his  creatures. 
He  would  be  incapable  of  hating  or  persecuting 
others  for  the  love  of  God.  He  will  find,  more- 
over, a  system  of  simple  diet  to  be  a  system  of 
perfect  epicurism.  He  will  no  longer  be  inces- 
santly occupied  in  blunting  and  destroying  those 
organs  from  which  he  expects  his  gratification. 
The  pleasures  of  taste  to  be  derived  from  a  dinner 
of  potatoes,  beans,  peas,  turnips,  lettuces,  with  a 
dessert  of  apples,  gooseberries,  strawberries,  cur- 
rants, raspberries,  and,  in  winter,  oranges,  apples, 
and  pears,  is  far  greater  than  is  supposed.  Those 
who  wait  until  they  can  eat  this  plain  fare  with 
the  sauce  of  appetite  will  scarcely  join  with  the 
hypocritical  sensualist  at  a  lord-mayor's  feast,  who 
declaims  against  the  pleasures  of  the  table.  So- 
lomon kept  a  thousand  concubines,  and  owned  in 
despair  that  all  was  vanity.  The  man,  whose 
happiness  is  constituted  by  the  society  of  one 
amiable  woman,  would  find  some  difficulty  in 
sympathizing  with  the  disappointment  of  this  ve- 
nerable debaucliee. 

I  address  myself  not  to  the  young  enthusiast 
only,  the  ardent  devotee  of  truth  and  virtue,  the 
pure  and  passionate  moralist,  yet  unvitiated  by 
the  contagion  of  the  world.     He  will  embrace  a 

*  See  Trotter  on  the  Netvous  Temperament. 


56 


EDITOR'S    NOTE    ON    QUEEN    MAB. 


pure  system  from  its  abstract  truth,  its  beauty,  its 
simplicity,  and  its  promise  of  wiilo-cxtcnded  bene- 
fit ;  unless  custom  has  turned  poison  into  food,  he 
will  hate  the  bruUil  pleasures  of  tlie  chase  by  in- 
stinct ;  it  will  be  a  contemplation  full  of  horror 
and  disapj)ointnient  to  his  mind,  that  beings,  capa- 
ble of  the  gentlest  and  most  admirable  sympathies, 
should  take  delight  in  the  death-pangs  and  last 
convulsions  of  dying  animals.  'J'he  elderly  man, 
whose  youth  has  been  poisoned  by  intemperance, 
or  who  has  lived  with  apparent  moderation,  and 
is  afflicted  with  a  variety  of  painful  maladies, 
would  find  his  account  in  a  beneficial  change  pro- 
duced without  the  risk  of  poisonous  medicines. 
The  mother  to  whom  the  jjcrpetual  restlessness 
of  disease,  and  unaccountable  deaths  incident  to 
her  children,  are  the  causes  of  incurable  unhappi- 
ness,  would  on  this  diet  experience  the  satisfac- 
tion of  beholding  their  perpetual  health  and  natu- 
ral playfulness.*  The  most  valuable  lives  are 
daily  destroyed  by  diseases  that  it  is  dangerous  to 

*  See  Mr.  Newton's  book.  His  children  are  the  most 
beautiful  and  healtViy  creatures  it  is  possible  to  con- 
ceive :  the  girls  are  perfect  models  for  a  sculptor  ; 
their  dispositions  are  also  the  most  penile  and  consi- 
liating  :  the  judicious  treatment  which  they  experience 
in  other  points  may  be  a  correlative  cause  of  this.  In 
the  first  five  years  of  their  life,  of  18,000  children  that 
are  born,  7500  die  of  various  diseases,  and  how  many 
more  of  those  that  survive  are  rendered  miserable  by 
maladies  not  immediately  mortal !  The  quality  and 
quantity  of  a  woman's  milk  are  materially  injured  by 
the  use  of  dead  flesh.  In  an  island  near  Iceland,  where 
no  vegetables  are  to  be  got,  the  children  invariably  die 
of  tetanus  before  they  are  three  weeks  old,  and  the 
population  is  supplied  from  the  main  land. — Sir  G. 
Jrlackenzie' s  Uislory  of  Iceland.  See  also  Emile,  chap.  i. 
pages  53,  54,  56. 


palliate,  and  impossible  to  cure,  by  medicine. 
How  much  longer  will  man  continue  to  pimp  for 
the  gluttony  of  death,  his  most  insidious,  implaca- 
ble, and  eternal,  foe  ! 

'AXXo  ipiiKOiira;  liyijiovi  /oaXtTrc,  KoX  irapiJiiXcif,  Ka\ 
\zovTai,  aVToX  6i  jitav^o.ure  tiV  oind^riTii,  KaTa\(7:6i'TCi 
CKcli'Oi;  oi6ci>'   becit'Oii  fiiv   yliji  o  ipoi'os  rpo/jf),  ii/iif  6i  ii'-pon 


On  yitp  OVK  cariv  dvOp^'no)  Kara  (piaiv  to  aapKO&ayeiv , 
TrfxoTOV  ^ij/  (iTrd  txOk  craj/iiiTO);'  iijXoOrat  ri];  KaraaKtviis. 
Oideii  yap  toiKt  to  dvOp  •ttov  a~>pn  twv  im  crapKOJiayia  ytyo- 
v&TiJV,  oi  XP'-^i^TTji  ^^tiXo'jj,  OIK  ujwrrjf  oVi'Xos,  ov  rpaxvTTi; 
oioi'ra)!'  Trpdacarif,  oi  KOiXia;  evroi'ia  xdl  Trvtvparoi  Ocpporrn, 
rptpai  /cue  KaTcpyaoauOai  (!urar<')  to  fiapv  KoX  Kpcioati'  dXX 
auTod;!'  i)  (ftvai^  TJj  Xtiiir/iTi  raji/  oSdnToyu,  <cai  rrj  apixpoTi'Ti 
Tov  OTO^arui,  Kal  rrj  paXaxuTqTi  nlj  yX  ■.(rij7)s,  xal  rj)  -pjj 
ntpiv  diii3\iTi]ri  too  nucijxaros,  itopinirai  tiju  aapKo^ayiav. 
El  il  Xtyti;  ircipvKcvai  acavrdv  cm  TOiairtin  i^ioi'nv,  S  (iov\u 
ipaytXi/,  TpwTOv  avTOi  d-adKTCtpov  liXX'  aiirci  ciu  aeaurov,  fir) 
Xpv^dfttvoi  KOTriiij  prjii  rvaaiM  ro'i,  pr)i'i  tts\ck£i,  dXXit  ojj 
XiiKOt  Kal  dpKTOi  Kai  XiovTCi  avToi  d>;  iaOiovai  (jiofcvouaii', 
ii^EXt  ifiy^ari  jiovv  5)  ari'mari  oZv,  5/  apva ;)  Aoywdj/,  iia^prj^ov^ 
Kal  ipdyt,  TrpooTTcaiiV  in  ifavro;  u;  ittuva. 

»  «  *  *  » 

'HiifTt  a  OVTO);  if  TO)  ptat'liih'o)  rpi'ip'opev,  (oare  o;^oi'  ro 
Kpcaf  Trpoirayoptvo^tv,  cira  i.ipcoi'  ^pdj  aire  to  Kptas  ieopsOa, 
dvaniyfivTCi  cXatov,  olvov,  p'^i,  yipov,  o^o;  ribispLaai 
'ZvpiaKoli,  AfpaiJiKOii,  uyjnep  Outios  v€Kf:Dv  inTafiaCoi'T!:;. 
Kal  yap  ovtoj;  avrwt'  iia\v6i:i/T0}i'  Kal  pa}\axOivTti}j  KtA  -p6- 
-ov  ntia  KpKVuaTrkvTbiv  cpyov  cotI  rnf  -nt^iv  Kparqaai,  Kal 
6iaKpaTr)0eiaiii  6i  icivdi  iSapirrirag  «/<toi«F  Kal  voa'^iei; 
dncxpias. 

*  »  »  *  * 

OvTb}  rd  Trp'-o-oi/  aypidv  n  ^ojoi'  il3pa>9r]  Kal  KOKOvpyov 
nra  Spva  rt;  !)  I'xf^u;  i'i\KV(jTO'  Kal  yevojiivou,  ourto  Kal 
TpospLcXhriaav  tv  CKcivoii  to  vikovv  inl  (ioiv  cpyaTijv  i}\Oc, 
Kal  TO  Kia^ov  -p6jiaT0v,  Kcd  tov  oUovpovv  dXcKrpioi'a'  Kal 
KarapiiKpov  ovtoj  r>)»'  dnXrjrrTiau  TOVumTavTCi,  ini  atfiayai 
dvdpoJKiov,  Kai  0i5^ouj,  Kal  n-oXr/iOi'j  rrponWov. 

nXour.  irepl  rrj;  XapKOipayta;. 


NOTE  ON  QUEEN  MAB. 


BY  THE  EDITOR 


Shf.llet  was  eighteen  when  he  wrote  '•  Queen 
Mab :"  he  never  published  it.  When  it  was 
written,  he  had  come  to  the  decision  that  he  was 
too  young  to  be  a  "judge  of  controversies  ;"  and 
he  was  desirous  of  acquiring  "that  sobriety  of 
spirit  which  is  the  characteristic  of  true  heroism." 
But  he  never  doubted  the  truth  or  utility  of  his 
opinions ;  and  in  printing  and  privately  distribut- 
ing "  Queen  Mab"  he  believed  that  he  should  fur- 
ther their  dissemination,  without  occasioning  the 
mischief  cither  to  others  or  himself  that  might 
arise  from  publication.  It  is  doubtful  whether  he 
would  himself  have  tidmitted  it  into  a  collection 
of  his  works.  His  severe  classical  taste,  refined 
by  the  constant  study  of  the  Greek  poets,  might 


have  discovered  defects  that  escape  the  ordinary 
reader,  and  the  change  his  opinions  underwent  in 
many  points,  wouhl  have  prevented  him  from  put- 
ting forth  the  speculations  of  his  boyish  days. 
But  the  poem  is  too  l)eautiful  in  itself,  and  far  too 
remarkable  as  the  production  of  a  boy  of  eighteen, 
to  allow  of  its  being  passed  over:  besides  that 
having  been  frequently  reprinted,  the  omission 
would  be  vain.  In  the  former  edition  certain  por- 
tions were  left  out,  as  shocking  the  general  reader 
from  the  violence  of  their  attack  on  religion.  I 
myself  had  a  painful  feeling  that  such  erasures 
might  be  looked  upon  as  a  mark  of  disrespect  to- 
wards the  author,  and  am  glad  to  have  the  oppor- 
tunity  of  restoring   them.     The   notes    also   are 


EDITOR'S    NOTE    ON    QUEEN    MAB. 


57 


reprinted  entire ;  not  because  Ihcy  are  models  of 
reasoning  or  lessons  of  truth;  but  because  Shelley 
wrote  them.  And  that  all  that  a  man,  at  once  so 
distinguished  and  so  excellent,  ever  did,  deserves 
to  be  preserved.  The  alterations  liis  oj)inions 
underwent  ought  to  be  recorded,  for  they  form  his 
history. 

A  scries  of  articles  was  published  in  tlic  "  New 
Monthly  Magazine,"  during  the  autumn  of  the 
year  1832,  written  by  a  man  of  great  talent,  a 
follow  collegian  and  warm  friend  of  Shelley  :  they 
describe  admirably  the  state  of  his  mind  during 
his  collegiate  life.  Inspired  with  ardour  for  the 
acquisition  of  knowledge ;  endowed  with  the 
keenest  sensibility,  and  with  the  fortitude  of  a 
martyr,  Shelley  came  among  his  fellow-creatures, 
congregated  for  the  purposes  of  education,  like  a 
spirit  from  another  sphere,  too  delicately  organized 
for  the  rougli  treatment  man  uses  towards  man, 
especially  in  the  season  of  youth  ;  aud  too  resolute 
in  carrying  out  his  own  sense  of  good  and  justice 
not  to  become  a  victim.  To  a  devoted  attachment 
to  those  he  loved,  he  added  a  determined  resist- 
ance to  oppression.  Refusing  to  fag  at  Eton,  he 
was  treated  with  revolting  cruelty  by  masters  and 
boys  :  this  roused,  instead  of  taming  his  spirit,  and 
he  rejected  the  duty  of  obedience,  when  it  was 
enforced  by  menaces  and  punishment.  To  aver- 
sion to  the  society  of  his  fellow-creatures,  such  as 
he  found  them  when  collected  together  in  socie- 
ties, where  one  egged  on  the  other  to  acts  of 
tyranny,  was  joined  the  deepest  sympathy  and 
compassion ;  while  the  attachment  he  felt  for  in- 
divfduals  and  the  admiration  with  which  he  re- 
garded their  powers  and  their  virtues,  led  him  to 
entertain  a  high  opinion  of  the  perfectibility  of 
human  nature,  and  he  believed  that  all  could 
reach  the  highest  grade  of  moral  improvement,  did 
not  the  customs  and  prejudices  of  society  foster 
evil  passions,  and  excuse  evil  actions. 

The  oppression  which,  trembling  at  every  nerve 
yet  resolute  to  heroism,  it  was  bis  ill  fortune  to 
encounter  at  school  and  at  college,  led  him  to  dis- 
sent in  all  things  from  those  whose  arguments 
were  blows,  whose  faith  appeared  to  engender 
blame  and  hatred.  "  During  my  existence,"  he 
WTote  to  a  friend  in  1812,  "I  have  incessantly 
speculated,  thought,  and  read."  His  readings 
were  not  always  well  chosen ;  among  them  were 
the  works  of  the  French  philosophers;  as  far  as 
metaphysical  argument  went,  he  temporarily  be- 
came a  convert.  At  the  same  time,  it  was  the 
cardinal  article  of  his  faith,  that  if  men  were  but 
taught  and  induced  to  treat  their  fellows  with  love, 
charity,  and  equal  rights,  this  earth  would  realize 
Paradise.     He  looked  upon  religion  as  it  is  pro- 


fessed, and,  above  all,  practised,  as  hostile,  instead 
of  friendly,  to  the  cultivation  of  those  virtues, 
which  would  make  men  brothers. 

Can  this  be  wondered  at  I  At  the  age  of  se- 
venteen, fragile  in  health  and  frame,  of  the  purest 
habits  in  morals,  full  of  devoted  generosity  and 
universal  kindness,  glowing  with  ardour  to  attain 
wisdom,  resolved  at  every  personal  sacrifice  to  do 
right,  burning  with  a  desire  for  atlection  and  sym- 
pathy,— he  was  treated  as  a  reprobate,  cast  forth 
as  a  criminal. 

The  cause  was,  that  he  was  sincere ;  that  he 
believed  the  opinions  which  he  entertained,  to  be 
true ;  and  he  loved  truth  with  a  martyr's  love :  he 
was  ready  to  sacrifice  station  and  fortune,  and  his 
dearest  aflections,  at  its  shrine.  The  sacrifice  was 
demanded  from,  and  made  by,  a  youth  of  seven- 
teen. It  is  a  singular  fact  in  the  history  of  society 
in  the  civilized  nations  of  modern  times,  that  no 
false  step  is  so  irretrievable  as  one  made  in  early 
youth.  Older  men,  it  is  true,  when  they  oppose 
their  fellows,  and  transgress  ordinary  rules,  carry  a 
certain  prudence  or  hypocrisy  as  a  shield  along 
with  them.  But  youth  is  rash ;  nor  can  it  imagine, 
while  asserting  what  it  believes  to  be  true,  and 
doing  what  it  believes  to  be  right,  that  it  should  be 
denounced  as  vicious,  and  pursued  as  a  criminal. 

Shelley  possessed  a  quality  of  mind  which  ex- 
perience has  shown  me  to  be  of  the  rarest  occur- 
rence among  human  beings:  this  was  his  un- 
loorldUness.  The  usual  motives  that  rule  men, 
prospects  of  present  or  future  advantage,  the  rank 
and  fortune  of  those  around,  the  taunts  and  cen- 
sures, or  the  praise  of  those  who  were  hostile  to 
him,  had  no  influence  whatever  over  his  actions, 
and  apparently  none  over  his  thoughts.  It  is 
difficult  even  to  express  the  simplicity  and  direct- 
ness of  purpose  that  adorned  him.  Some  few 
might  be  found  in  the  history  of  mankind,  and 
some  one  at  least  among  his  own  friends,  equally 
disinterested  and  scornful,  even  to  severe  personal 
sacrifices,  of  every  baser  motive.  But  no  one,  I 
believe,  ever  joined  this  noble  but  passive  virtue 
to  equal  active  endeavours,  for  the  benefit  of  his 
friends  and  mankind  in  general,  and  to  equal 
power  to  produce  the  advantages  he  desired.  The 
world's  lirightest  gauds,  and  its  most  solid  advan- 
tages, were  of  no  worth  in  his  eyes,  when  com- 
pared to  the  cause  of  what  he  considered  truth, 
and  the  good  of  his  fellow-creatures.  Bom  m  a 
position  which,  to  his  inexperienced  mind,  afforded 
the  greatest  facilities  to  practise  the  tenets  he  es- 
poused, he  Loldly  declared  the  use  he  would  make 
of  fortune  and  station,  and  enjoyed  the  belief  that 
he  should  materiallv  benefit  his  fellow-creatures 


58 


EDITOR'S    NOTE    ON    QUEEN    MAB. 


by  his  actions;  while,  conscious  of  surpassing 
j)owcrs  of  reason  and  imagination,  it  is  not  strange 
tliat  he  should,  oven  while  so  young,  have  believed 
that  his  written  thoughts  would  tend  to  dissemi- 
nate opinions,  which  he  believed  conducive  to  the 
happiness  of  the  human  race. 

If  man  were  a  creature  devoid  of  passion,  he 
might  have  said  and  done  all  this  with  quietness. 
But  he  was  too  enthusiastic,  and  too  full  of  hatred 
of  all  the  ills  he  witnessed,  not  to  scorn  danger. 
Various  disappointments  tortured,  but  could  not 
tame,  his  soul.  I'he  more  enmity  he  met,  the 
more  earnestly  he  became  attached  to  his  peculiar 
views,  and  hostile  to  those  of  the  men  who  perse- 
cuted him. 

He  was  animated  to  greater  zeal  by  compassion 
for  his  fellow-creatures.  His  sympathy  was  ex- 
cited by  the  misery  with  which  the  world  is  burst- 
ing. He  witnessed  the  sufferings  of  the  poor,  and 
was  aware  of  the  evils  of  ignorance.  He  desired 
to  induce  every  rich  man  to  despoil  himself  of  su- 
perfluity, and  to  create  a  brotherhood  of  property 
and  ser\ice,  and  was  ready  to  be  the  first  to  lay 
down  the  advantages  of  his  birth.  He  was  of  too 
uncompromisiiig  a  disposition  to  join  any  party. 
He  did  not  in  his  youth  look  forward  to  gradual 
improvement:  nay,  in  those  days  of -intolerance, 
now  almost  forgotten,  it  seemed  as  easy  to  look 
forward  to  the  sort  of  millennium  of  freedom  and 
brotherhood,  which  he  thought  the  proper  state  of 
mankind,  as  to  the  present  reign  of  moderation 
and  improvement.  Ill  health  made  him  believe 
that  Ids  race  would  soon  be  run ;  that  a  year  or 
two  was  all  he  had  of  life.  He  desired  that  these 
years  should  be  useful  and  illustrious.  He  saw,  in 
a  fervent  call  on  his  fellow-creatures  to  share  alike 
the  blessings  of  the  creation,  to  love  and  serve  each 
other,  the  noblest  work  that  life  and  time  pormitted 
him.     In  this  spirit  he  composed  Qukex  Mab. 

He  was  a  lover  of  the  wondorfid  and  wild  in 
literature  ;  but  had  not  fostered  these  tastes  at  their 
genuine  sources — the  romances  and  chivalry  of  the 
middle  ages ;  but  in  the  perusal  of  such  German 
w  irks  as  were  current  in  those  days.  Under  the 
influence  of  these,  he,  at  the  age  of  fifteen,  wrote 
two  short  prose  romances  of  slender  merit.  The 
sentiments  and  language  were  exaggerated,  the 
composition  imitative  and  poor.  He  wrote  also  a 
poem  on  the  subject  of  Ahasueras — being  led  to  it 
by  a  German  fragment  he  picked  up,  dirty  and  torn, 
in  Lincoln's-inn-Ficlds.  This  fell  aftenvards  into 
other  hands — and  was  considerably  altered  before 
it  was  printed.  Our  earlier  English  poetry  was 
almost  unknown  to  him.  The  love  and  knowledge 
of  nature  developed  by  Wordsworth — 'the  lofty  me- 


lody and  mysterious  beauty  of  Coleridge's  poetry — 
and  the  wild  fantastic  machinery  and  gorgeous 
scenery  adopted  by  Southey,  comiioscd  his  fa\ourite 
reading ;  the  rhythm  of  Queen  Mab  was  founded 
on  that  of  Thalaba,  and  the  first  few  lines  bear  a 
striking  resemblance  in  spirit,  though  not  in  idea, 
to  the  opening  of  that  poem.  His  fertile  imagination 
and  ear,  tuned  to  the  finest  sense  of  harmony,  pre- 
served him  fi-om  imitation.  Another  of  his  favourite 
books  was  the  poem  of  Gebir,  by  Walter  Savage 
Landor.  From  Ills  boyhood  he  had  a  wonderful 
facility  of  versification  which  he  carried  into  anotlier 
language,  and  his  Latin  school  verses  were  com- 
posed with  an  ease  and  correctness  that  procured  for 
him  prizes — and  caused  him  to  be  resorted  to  by 
all  his  friends  for  help.  He  was,  at  the  period  of 
writing  Queen  Mab,  a  great  traveller  within  the 
limits  of  England,  Scotland,  and  Ireland.  His  time 
was  spent  among  the  loveliest  scenes  of  these  coim- 
tries.  Mountain  and  lake  and  forest  were  his  home ; 
the  phenomena  of  nature  were  his  favourite  study. 
He  loved  to  inquire  into  their  causes,  and  was  ad- 
dicted to  pursuits  of  natural  philosophy  and  chemis- 
try, as  far  as  they  could  be  carried  on,  as  an  amuse- 
ment These  tastes  gave  truth  and  vivacity  to  liis 
descriptions,  and  warmed  his  soul  with  that  deep 
admiration  for  the  wonders  of  Nature  which  con- 
stant association  with  her  inspired. 

He  never  intended  to  publish  Queen  Mab  as  it 
stands  ;  but  a  few  years  after,  when  printing  Alas- 
tor,  he  extracted  a  small  portion  which  he  entitled 
"  The  Da;mon  of  the  W'orld  :"  in  this  he  changed 
somewhat  the  versification — and  made  other  altera- 
tions  scarcely  to  be  called  improvements. 

I  extract  the  invocation  of  Queen  Mab  to  the 
Soul  of  lanthe,  as  altered  in  "  The  Daemon  of  the 
World."  I  give  it  as  a  specimen  of  the  alterations 
made.     It  well  characterizes  his  own  state  of  mind : 

INVOCATION. 


Maiilrn,  the  world's  suprcmest  spirit 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  her  wings 
Folds  all  tliy  memory  doth  iidierit 
From  ruin  of  divinest  things, 

P"'celinE:s  that  lure  thee  to  betray. 
And  light  of  thoughts  that  pass  away. 

For  thou  hast  earned  a  mighty  boon  ; 
Tile  truths  which  wisest  poets  see 
Dindy,  thy  mind  may  make  its  own, 
Rewarding  its  own  majesty. 

Entranced  in  some  diviner  mood 
Of  self-oblivious  soUtude. 

Custom  and  faith  and  power  thou  spumcst. 
From  hate  and  fear  thv  heart  is  free  ; 


EDITOR'S    NOTE    ON    QUEEN    MAB. 


59 


Anient  and  pure  as  day  tliou  burncst 
For  darlv  and  cold  iiuirtalily  ; 
A  living  light  to  cheer  it  long, 
'I'he  watch-tires  of  the  world  among. 

Therefore,  from  nature's  inner  shrine, 

\Mierc  gods  and  fiends  in -worship  bend, 
Majestic  Spirit,  be  it  thine 

i'hc  flame  to  seize,  the  veil  to  rend, 
Where  the  vast  snake  Eternity 
In  charmed  sleep  doth  ever  lie. 

All  that  inspires  thy  voice  of  love, 
Or  s[)eaks  in  thy  unclosing  eyes 
Or  through  thv  frame  doth  burn  and  move 
Or  think,  or  feel,  awake,  arise ! 
Spirit,  leave  for  mine  and  me 
Eiurth's  unsubstantial  mimicry  ! 

Some  years  after,  when  in  Italy,  a  bookseller 
published  an  edition  of  Queen  Mab  as  it  originally 
stood.  Shelley  was  hastily  written  to  by  his  friends, 
under  the  idea  that,  deeply  injurious  as  the  mere 
distribution  of  the  poem  had  proved,  the  publication 
might  awaken  fresh  persecutions.  At  the  sugges- 
tion of  these  friends  he  wrote  a  letter  on  the  sub- 
ject, printed  in  "  The  Examiner"  newspaper — 
with  which  I  close  this  histor}"  of  his  earhest  work. 

TO    THE    EDITOR    OF    "  THE    EXAMIXEH." 

"Sir, 

« Having  heard  that  a  poem,  entitled  '  Queen 
Mab,'  has  been  surreptitiously  published  in  London, 
and  that  legal  proceedings  have  been  instituted 
against  the  publisher,  I  request  the  favour  of  your 
insertion  of  the  following  explanation  of  the  afl'air, 
as  it  relates  to  me. 

«  A  poem  entitled  '  Queen  Mab,'  was  written  by 
me,  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  I  dare  say  in  a  sulS- 


ciently  intemperate  spirit — but  even  then  was  not 
intended  for  jiulilication,  and  a  few  copies  only 
were  struck  oil',  to  be  distributed  among  my  per- 
sonal friends.  I  have  not  seen  this  production  for 
several  years ;  I  doubt  not  but  that  it  is  perfectly 
worthless  in  point  of  literary  composition;  and  that 
in  all  that  concerns  moral  and  political  speculation, 
as  well  as  in  the  subtler  discriminations,  of  meta- 
physicaland  religious  doctrine,  it  is  still  more  crude 
and  immature.  I  am  a  devoted  enemy  to  religious, 
political,  and  domestic  oppression ;  and  I  regret  this 
publication  not  so  much  from  literary  vanity,  as  be- 
cause I  fear  it  is  better  fitted  to  injure  than  to  serve 
the  sacred  cause  of  freedom.  I  have  directed  my 
solicitor  to  apply  to  Chancery  for  an  injunction  to 
restrain  the  sale  ;  but  after  the  precedent  of  Mr. 
Southcy's  '  Wat  Tyler,'  (a  poem,  written,  I  believe, 
at  the  same  age,  and  with  the  same  unreflecting 
enthusiasm,)  with  little  hope  of  success. 

«  Whilst  I  exonerate  myself  from  all  share  in 
ha\ing  divulged  opinions  hostile  to  existing  sanc- 
tions, under  the  form,  whatever  it  may  be,  which 
they  assume  in  this  poem ;  it  is  scarcely  necessary 
for  me  to  protest  against  the  system  of  inculcating 
the  truth  of  Christianity  or  the  excellence  of  Mon- 
archy, however  excellent  they  may  be,  by  such 
equivocal  arguments  as  confiscation  and  imprison- 
ment, and  invective  and  slander,  and  the  insolent 
violation  of  the  most  sacred  ties  of  nature  and 
society. 

"Sir, 

"  I  am  your  obliged  and  obedient  servant, 

"Peucx  B.  Shelley. 
"  Pisa,  June  ^'2,  1621." 


END  OF  QUEEN  MAB. 


alastoe; 


OR, 


THE   SPIRIT   OF   SOLITUDE. 


Nondum  amabam,  et  amare  amabam,  qua;rebain  quid  amarem  anians  amare, 

Confess.  St.  August. 


PREFACE. 


The  poem  entitled  <>  Alastor,"  may  be  con- 
sidered as  allegorical  of  one  of  the  most  interesting 
situations  of  the  human  mind.  It  rej)resents  a 
youth  of  uncorrupted  feelings  and  adventurous 
genius,  led  forth  by  an  imagination  inflamed  and 
purilied  through  familiarity  with  all  that  is  excel- 
lent and  majestic,  to  the  contemplation  of  the 
universe.  He  drinks  deep  of  the  fountains  of 
knowledge,  and  is  still  insatiate.  The  magnificence 
and  beauty  of  the  external  world  sinks  profoundly 
into  the  frame  of  his  conceptions,  and  aiTords  to 
their  modifications  a  variety  not  to  be  exhausted. 
So  long  as  it  is  possible  for  his  desires  to  point 
towards  objects  thus  infinite  and  unmeasured,  he 
is  joyous,  and  tranquil,  and  self-possessed.  But 
the  period  arrives  when  these  objects  cease  to  suf- 
fice. His  mind  is  at  length  suddenly  awakened, 
and  thirsts  for  intercourse  with  an  intelligence 
similar  to  itself.  He  images  to  himself  the  Being 
whom  he  loves.  Conversant  with  speculations  of 
the  sublimest  and  most  perfect  natures,  the  vision 
in  which  he  embodies  his  own  imaginations,  unites 
all  of  wonderful,  or  wise,  or  beautiful,  which  the 
poet,  the  philosopher,  or  the  lover,  could  depicture. 
The  intellectual  faculties,  the  imagination,  the 
functions  of  sense,  have  their  respective  requisitions 
on  the  sympathy  of  corresponding  powers  in  other 
human  beings.  The  Poet  is  represented  as  uniting 
these  requisitions,  and  attaching  them  to  a  single 
image.  He  seeks  in  vain  for  a  prototype  of  his 
conception.  Blasted  by  his  disappointment,  he 
descends  to  an  untimely  grave. 

The  picture  is  not  barren  of  instruction  to  actual 
men.  The  Poet's  self-centred  seclusion  was 
avenged  by  the  furies  of  an  irresistible  passion 
pursuing  him  to  speedy  ruin.  But  that  Power 
which  strikes  the  luminaries  of  the  world  with 
sudden  darkness  and  \<xtinct,ion,  by  awakening 
them  to  too  exciuinitc  a  perception  of  its  influences, 
dooms  to  a  slow  and  poisonous  decay  those  meaner 
spirits  that  dare  to  abjure  its  dominion.  Their 
destiny  is  more  abject  and  inglorious,  as  their  de- 
linquency is  more  contemptible  and  pernicious. 
Thev  who,  deluded  by  no  generous  error,  instigated 
by  no  sacred  thirst  of  doubtful  knowledge,  duped 

(GO) 


by  no  illustrious  superstition,  loving  nothing  on 
this  earth,  and  cherishing  no  hopes  beyond,  yet 
keep  aloof  from  sympathies  with  tlicir  kind,  re- 
joicing neither  in  human  joy  nor  mourning  with 
human  grief;  these,  and  such  as  they,  have  their 
apportioned  curse.  They  languish,  because  none 
feel  with  them  their  common  nature.  They  are 
morally  dead.  They  are  neither  friends,  nor 
lovers,  nor  fathers,  nor  citizens  of  the  world,  nor 
benefactors  of  their  countrj'.  Among  those  who 
attempt  to  exist  without  human  sympathy,  the 
pure  and  tender-hearted  perish  through  the  in- 
tensity and  passion  of  their  search  after  its  com- 
munities, when  the  vacancy  of  their  spirit  suddenly 
makes  itself  felt.  All  else,  selfish,  bhnd,  and 
torpid,  are  those  unforeseeing  multitudes  who  con- 
stitute, together  with  tlieir  own,  the  lasthig  misery 
and  loneliness  of'the  world.  Those  who  love  not 
their  fellow-beings,  live  unfruitful  hves,  and  pre- 
pare for  their  old  age  a  miserable  grave. 

The  good  die  first. 
And  those  whose  hearts  are  dry  as  suimucr's  dust 
Burn  to  the  socket ! 

December  14,  1815. 


E.tnTit,  ocean,  air,  beloved  brotherhood  ! 
If  our  great  Mother  have  imbued  my  soul 
With  aught  of  natural  piety  to  feel 
Your  love,  and  recompense  the  boon  with  mine ; 
If  dewy  morn,  and  odorous  noon,  and  even, 
With  sunset  and  its  gorgeous  ministers. 
And  solemn  midnight's  tingling  silentness; 
If  autumn's  hollow  sighs  in  the  sere  wood, 
And  winter  robing  with  pure  snow  and  crowns 
Of  starry  ice  the  gray  grass  and  bare  boughs; 
If  spring's  voluptuous  pantings  when  she  breathes 
Her  first  sweet  kisses,  have  been  dear  to  mc ; 
If  no  bright  bird,  insect,  or  gentle  beast 
I  consciously  have  injured,  but  still  loved 
And  cherished  these  my  kindred  ; — then  forgive 
This  boast,  beloved  brethron,  and  withdraw 
No  portion  of  your  wonted  favour  now  ! 

Mother  of  this  unfathomable  worid ! 
Favour  my  solemn  song,  for  I  have  loved 


ALASTOR;     OR,    THE    SPIRIT  OF    SOLITUDE. 


61 


Thee  ever,  and  thee  only ;  I  have  watched 

Thy  shadow,  and  the  darkness  of  thy  steps, 

And  my  heart  ever  p;azes  on  the  depth 

Of  thy  deep  mysteries.     I  have  made  my  hcJ 

In  eharnels  and  on  cofTins,  where  hhick  death 

Keeps  record  of  the  trophies  won  from  thee, 

Hoping;  to  still  these  ohstinate  questionings 

Of  thee  and  thine,  by  forcing  some  lone  ghost. 

Thy  messenger,  to  render  up  the  tale 

Of  what  we  are.     In  lone  and  silent  hours. 

When  niiiht  makes  a  weird  sound  of  its  own  stillness, 

Jjike  an  inspired  and  desperate  alchymist 

Staking  his  very  life  on  some  dark  hope. 

Have  I  mixed  awful  talk  and  asking  looks 

With  my  most  innocent  love,  until  strange  tears 

Uniting  with  those  breathless  kisses,  made 

Such  magic  as  compels  the  charmed  night 

To  render  up  thy  charge  :  and,  though  ne'er  yet 

Thou  hast  unveiled  thy  inmost  sanctuary ; 

Enough  from  incommunicable  dream. 

And  twilight  phantasms,  and  deep  noonday  thought, 

Has  shone  within  me,  that  serenely  now 

And  moveless,  as  a  long-forgotten  lyre 

Suspended  in  the  solitary  dome 

Of  some  mysterious  and  deserted  fane, 

I  wait  thy  breath.  Great  Parent,  that  my  strain 

May  modulate  with  murmurs  of  the  air, 

And  motions  of  the  forests  and  the  sea. 

And  voice  of  living  beings,  and  woven  hymns 

Of  night  and  day,  and  the  deep  heart  of  man. 

There  was  a  Poet  whose  untimely  tomb 
No  human  hands  with  pious  reverence  reared, 
But  the  charmed  eddies  of  autumnal  winds 
Built  o'er  his  mouldering  bones  a  pyramid 
Of  mouldering  leaves  in  the  waste  wilderness ; 
A  lovely  youth, — no  mourning  maiden  decked 
With  weeping  flowers,  or  votive  cypress  wTeath, 
The  lone  couch  of  his  everlasting  sleep : 
Gentle,  and  brave,  and  generous,  no  lorn  bard 
Breathed  o'er  his  dark  fate  one  melodious  sigh : 
He  lived,  he  died,  he  sang  in  solitude. 
Strangers  have  wept  to  hear  his  passionate  notes, 
And  virgins,  as  unknown  he  passed,  have  pined 
And  wasted  for  fond  love  of  his  wild  eyes. 
The  fire  of  those  soft  orbs  has  ceased  to  burn, 
And  Silence  too,  enamoured  of  that  voice, 
Locks  its  mute  music  in  her  rugged  cell. 

By  solemn  vision  and  bright  silver  dream, 
His  infancy  was  nurtured.     Every  sight 
And  sound  from  the  vast  earth  and  ambient  air, 
Sent  to  his  heart  its  choicest  impulses. 
The  fountains  of  divine  philosophy 
Fled  not  his  thirsting  lips ;  and  all  of  great, 
Or  good,  or  lovely,  which  the  sacred  past 
In  truth  or  fable  consecrates,  he  felt 
And  knew.     When  early  youth  had  past,  he  left 
His  colli  fireside  and  alienated  home, 
To  seek  strange  truths  in  undiscovered  lands. 
Many  a  wide  waste  and  tangled  wilderness 
Has  lured  his  fearless  steps ;  and  he  has  bought 
W^ith  his  sweet  voice  and  eyes,  from  savage  men. 
His  rest  and  food.     Nature's  most  secret  steps 
He,  like  her  shadow,  has  pursued,  where'er 


The  red  volcano  overcanopies 

Its  fields  of  snow,  and  pinnacles  of  ice 

With  burning  smoke  :  or  where  bitumen  lakes, 

On  black  bare  pointed  islets  ever  beat 

With  sluggish  surge,  or  where  the  secret  caves, 

Rugged  and  dark,  winding  among  the  springs, 

Of  fire  and  poison,  inaccessible 

To  avarice  or  pride,  their  starry  domes 

Of  diamond  and  of  gold  expand  above 

Numberless  and  immeasurable  halls, 

Frecjuent  with  crystal  coluiim,  and  clear  shrines 

Of  pearl,  and  thrones  radiant  with  chrysolite. 

Nor  had  that  scene  of  ampler  majesty 

Than  gems  or  gold,  the  varying  roof  of  heaven 

And  the  green  earth,  lost  in  his  heart  its  claims 

To  love  and  wonder ;  he  would  linger  long 

In  lonesome  vales,  making  the  wild  his  home, 

Until  the  doves  and  squirrels  would  partake 

From  his  innocuous  hand  his  bloodless  food, 

Lured  by  the  gentle  meaning  of  his  looks. 

And  the  wild  antelope,  that  starts  whene'er 

The  dry  leaf  rustles  in  the  brake,  suspend 

Her  timid  steps,  to  gaze  upon  a  form 

More  graceful  than  her  own. 

His  wandering  step. 
Obedient  to  high  thoughts,  has  visited 
The  awful  ruins  of  the  days  of  old : 
Athens,  and  Tyre,  and  Balbec,  and  the  waste 
Where  stood  Jerusalem,  the  fallen  towers 
Of  Babylon,  the  eternal  pyramids, 
Memphis  and  Thebes,  and  whatsoe'er  of  strange 
Sculptured  on  alabaster  obelisk. 
Or  jasper  tomb,  or  mutilated  sphinx. 
Dark  Ethiopia  on  her  desert  hills 
Conceals.     Among  the  ruined  temples  there. 
Stupendous  columns,  and  wild  images 
Of  more  than  man,  where  marble  demons  watch 
The  Zodiac's  brazen  mystery,  and  dead  men 
Hang  their  mute  thoughts  on  the  mute  walls  around, 
He  lingered,  poring  on  memorials 
Of  the  world's  youth,  through  the  long  burning  day 
Gazed  on  those  speechless  shapes,  nor,  when  the 

moon 
Filled  the  mysterious  halls  with  floating  shades 
Suspended  he  that  task,  but  ever  gazed 
And  gazed,  till  meaning  on  his  vacant  mind 
Flashed  like  strong  inspiration,  and  he  saw 
The  thrilling  secrets  of  the  birth  of  tune. 

Meanwhile  an  Arab  maiden  brought  his  food. 
Her  daily  portion,  from  her  father's  tent, 
And  spread  her  matting  for  his  couch,  and  stole 
From  duties  and  repose  to  tend  his  steps : — ■ 
Enamoured,  yet  not  daring  for  deep  awe 
To  speak  her  love: — and  watched  his  nightly  sleep, 
Sleepless  herself,  to  gaze  upon  his  lips 
Parted  in  slundier,  whence  the  regular  breath 
Of  iimocent  dreams  arose  :  then,  when  red  mom 
Made  paler  the  pale  moon,  to  her  cold  home, 
Wildered,  and  wan,  and  panting,  she  returned. 

Tlie  Poet  wandering  on,  through  Arable 
And  Persia,  and  the  wild  Carmanian  waste. 
And  o'er  the  aerial  mountains  which  pour  down 
F 


62 


ALASTOR;     OR,    THE    SPIRIT    OF    SOLITUDE. 


Indus  and  Oxus  from  their  icy  caves, 
In  joy  and  exultation  held  his  way  ; 
Till  in  tlie  vale  of  (,'achmire,  far  witliin 
Its  loneliest  dell,  where  odorous  j)hiiits  entwine 
Beneath  the  hollow  rocks  a  natural  howcr, 
Beside  a  sparkling  rivulet  he  stretched 
^  His  languid  liinhs,     A  vision  on  his  sleep 
There  came,  a  dream  of  hopes  that  never  yet 
Had  flushed  his  cheeks.    He  dreamed  a  veiled  maid 
Sate  near  him,  talking  in  low  solemn  tones, 
Her  voice  was  like  the  voice  of  his  own  soul 
Heard  in  the  calm  of  thought ;  its  music  long, 
Like  woven  sounds  of  streams  and  breezes,  held 
His  inmost  sense  suspended  in  its  web 
Of  many-coloured  woof  and  shifting  hues, 
Knowledge  and  truth  and  virtue  were  her  theme, 
And  lofly  hopes  of  divine  liberty, 
Thoughts  the  most  dear  to  him,  and  poesy, 
Herself  a  poet.     Soon  the  solemn  mood 
Of  her  pure  mind  kindled  through  all  her  frame 
A  permeating  fire  :  wild  numbers  then 
She  raised,  with  voice  stifled  in  tremulous  sobs 
Subdued  by  its  own  pathos :  her  fair  hands 
Were  bare  alone,  sweeping  from  some  strange  harp 
Strange  symphony,  and  in  their  branching  veins 
The  eloquent  blood  told  an  ineffable  tale. 
The  beating  of  her  heart  was  heard  to  fill 
The  pauses  of  her  music,  and  her  breath 
Tumultuously  accorded  with  those  fits 
Of  intermitted  song.     Sudden  she  rose. 
As  if  her  heart  impatiently  endured 

^  Its  bursting  burden:  at  the  sound  he  turned. 
And  saw  by  the  warm  Ught  of  their  own  life 
Her  glowing  limbs  beneath  the  sinuous  veil 
Of  woven  wind ;  her  outspread  arms  now  bare, 
Her  dark  locks  floating  in  the  breath  of  night. 
Her  beamy  bending  eyes,  her  parted  lips 
Outstretched,  and  pale,  and  quivering  eagerly. 

. ''  His  strong  heart  sank  and  sickened  with  excess 
Of  love.     He  reared   his  shuddering  limbs   and 

quelled 
His  gasping  breath,  and  spread  his  arms  to  meet 
Her  panting  bosom  : — she  drew  back  awhile, 
Then,  yielding  to  the  irresistible  joy. 
With  frantic  gesture  and  short  breathless  cry 

>/Folded  his  frame  in  her  dissolving  arms. 
Now  blackness  veiled  his  dizzy  eyes,  and  night 
Involved  and  swallowed  up  the  vision ;  sleep, 
Like  a  dark  flood  suspended  in  its  course, 
Rolled  back  its  impulse  on  his  vacant  brain. 

Roused  by  the  shock,  he  started  from  his  trance — 

The  cold  white  light  of  morning,  the  blue  moon 

Low  in  the  west,  the  clear  and  garish  hills, 

The  distinct  valley  and  the  vacant  woods,       [fled 

Spread  round  him  where  he  stood.     Whither  have 

The  hues  of  heaven  that  canopied  his  bower 

Of  yesternight  ?  The  sounds  that  soothed  his  sleep, 

The  mystery  and  the  majesty  of  Earth, 

The  joy,  the  exultation  1     His  wan  eyes 

Gaze  on  the  empty  scene  as  vacantly 

As  ocean's  moon  looks  on  the  moon  in  heaven. 

The  spirit  of  sweet  human  love  has  sent 

A  vision  to  the  sleep  of  him  who  spurned 

Her  choicest  gifts.     He  eagerly  pursues 


Beyond  the  realms  of  dream  that  fleeting  shade ; 
He  overleaps  the  bounds.     Alas!  alas! 
\^'ere  limbs  and  breath  and  being  intertwined 
Thus  treacherously  ]      Lost,  lost,  for  ever  lost, 
In  the  %vide  j)athless  desert  of  dim  sleep. 
That  beautiful  shajjc  !  Does  the  dark  gate  of  death 
Conduct  to  thy  mysterious  paradise, 
O  Sleep  T  Docs  the  bright  arch  of  rainbow  clouds, 
And  pendent  mountains  seen  in  the  calm  lake. 
Lead  only  to  a  black  and  watery  dej)th,        [hung. 
While   death's  blue  vault  with  loathliest  vapours 
Where  every  shade  which  the  foul  grave  exhales 
Hides  its  dead  eye  from  the  detested  day, 
Conduct,  O  Sleep,  to  thy  delightful  realms  ! 
This  doubt  with  sudden  tide  flowed  on  his  heart, 
The  insatiate  hope  which  it  awakened,  stung 
His  brain  even  like  despair. 

While  daylight  held 
The  sky,  the  Poet  kept  mute  conference 
With  his  still  soul.     At  night  the  passion  came, 
Like  the  fierce  fiend  of  a  distempered  dream, 
And  shook  him  from  his  rest,  and  led  him  forth 
Into  the  darkness. — As  an  eagle  grasped 
In  folds  of  the  green  serpent,  feels  her  breast 
Burn  with  the  poison,  and  precipitates  [cloud. 

Through  night  and   day,  tempest,  and  calm  and 
Frantic  with  dizzying  anguish,  her  blind  flight 
O'er  the  wide  aery  wilderness  :  thus  driven 
By  the  bright  shadow  of  that  lovely  dream, 
Beneath  the  cold  glare  of  the  desolate  night. 
Through  tangled  swamps  and  deep  precipitous  dells. 
Startling  with  careless  step  the  moonlight  snake. 
He  fled.     Red  morning  dawned  upon  his  flight, 
Shedding  the  mockery  of  its  vital  hues 
Upon  his  cheek  of  death.     He  wandered  on. 
Till  vast  Aornos,  seeii  from  Petra's  steep. 
Hung  o'er  the  low  horizon  like  a  cloud; 
Through  Balk,  and  where  the  desolated  tombs 
Of  Parthian  kings  scatter  to  every  wind 
Their  wasting  dust,  wildly  he  wandered  on. 
Day  after  day,  a  weary  waste  of  hours. 
Bearing  within  his  life  the  brooding  care 
That  ever  fed  on  its  decaying  flame. 
And  now  his  limbs  were  lean ;  his  scattered  hair, 
Sered  by  the  autumn  of  strange  suftering. 
Sung  dirges  in  the  wind  ;  his  listless  hand 
Hung  like  dead  bone  within  its  withered  skin ; 
Life,  and  the  lustre  that  consumed  it,  shone 
As  in  a  furnace  burning  secretly 
From  his  dark  eyes  alone.     The  cottagers, 
Who  ministered  with  human  charity 
His  human  wants,  beheld  with  wondering  awe 
Their  fleeting  visitant.     The  mountaineer, 
Encountering  oti  some  dizzy  precipice 
That  spectral  form,  deemed  that  the  Spirit  of  wind 
With  lightning  eyes,  and  eager  breath,  and  feet 
Disturbing  not  the  drifting  snow,  had  paused 
In  his  career :  the  infant  would  conceal 
His  troubled  visage  in  his  mother's  robe 
In  terror  at  the  glare  of  those  wild  eyes, 
To  remember  their  strange  light  in  many  a  dream 
Of  after  times ;  but  youthful  maidens,  taught 
By  nature,  would  interpret  half  the  wo 
That  wasted  him,  would  call  him  with  false  names 


ALASTOR;    OR,    THE    SRIRIT    OF    SOLITUDE. 


63 


Brother,  and  friend,  would  press  his  palUd  liand 
At  parting,  and  watc-h,  dim  through  tears,  the  path 
Of  his  departure  from  their  father's  door. 

At  length  upon  the  lone  Chorasmian  shore 
He  paused,  a  wide  and  melancholy  waste 
Of  putrid  marshes.     A  strong  impulse  urged 
His  steps  to  the  sea-shore.     A  swan  was  tiiere, 
Beside  a  sluggish  stream  among  the  reeds. 
It  rose  as  he  approached,  and  with  strong  wings 
Scaled  the  upward  sky,  bent  its  bright  course 
High  over  the  immeasurable  main. 
His  eyes  pursued  its  flight: — "Thou  hast  a  home, 
Beautiful  bird  !  thou  voyagest  to  thine  home, 
Where  thy  sweet  mate  will  twine  her  downy  neck 
With  thine,  and  welcome  thy  return  with  eyes 
Bright  in  the  lustre  of  their  own  fond  joy. 
And  what  am  I  that  I  should  linger  here, 
With  voice  far  sweeter  than  thy  dying  notes, 
Spirit  more  vast  than  thine,  frame  more  attuned 
To  beauty,  wasting  these  surpassing  powers 
In  the  deaf  air,  to  the  blind  earth,  and  heaven 
That  echoes  not  my  thoughts'?"    A  gloomy  smile 
Of  desperate  hope  wrinkled  his  quivering  lips. 
For  sleep,  he  knew,  kept  most  relentlessly 
Its  precious  charge,  and  silent  death  exposed, 
Faithless  perhaps  as  sleep,  a  shadowy  lure. 
With  doubtful  smile   mocking  its    own   strange 

*       charms. 

Startled  by  his  own  thoughts,  he  looked  around  : 
There  was  no  fiir  fiend  near  him,  not  a  sight 
Or  sound  of  awe  but  in  his  own  deep  mind. 
A  little  shallop  floating  near  the  shore 
Caught  the  impatient  wandering  of  his  gaze. 
It  had  been  long  abandoned,  for  its  sides 
Gaped  wide  with  many  a  rift,  and  its  frail  joints 
Swayed  with  the  undulations  of  the  tide. 
A  restless  impulse  urged  him  to  embark 
And  meet  lone  Death  on  the  drear  ocean's  waste ; 
For  well  he  knew  that  mighty  Shadow  loves 
The  shmy  caverns  of  the  populous  deep. 

The  day  .was  fair  and  sunny  :  sea  and  sky 
Drank  its  inspiring  radiance,  and  the  wind 
Swept   strongly  from  the   shore,  blackening  the 
Following  his  eager  soul,  the  wanderer      [waves. 
Leaped  in  the  boat,  he  spread  his  cloak  aloft 
On  the  bare  mast,  and  took  his  lonely  scat. 
And  felt  the  boat  speed  o'er  the  tranquil  sea 
Like  a  torn  cloud  before  the  hurricane. 

As  one  that  in  a  silver  vision  floats 

Obedient  to  the  sweep  of  odorous  winds 

Upon  resplendent  clouds,  so  rapidly 

Along  the  dark  and  ruflnlcd  waters  fled 

The  straining  boat. — A  whirlwind  swept  it  on, 

With  fierce  gusts  and  precipitating  force. 

Through  the  white  ridges  of  the  chafed  sea. 

The  waves  arose.     Higher  and  liigher  still 

Their  fierce  necks  writhed  beneath  the  tempest's 

scourge 
Like  serpent's  struggling  in  a  vulture's  grasp. 
Calm  and  rejoicing  in  the  fearful  war 
Of  wave  running  on  wave,  and  blast  on  blast 


Descending,  and  black  flood  on  whirlpool  driven 
With  dark  obliterating  course,  he  sate  : 
As  if  their  genii  were  the  ministers 
Appointed  to  conduct  him  to  the  light 
Of  those  beloved  eyes,  the  Poet  sate 
Hol<]ing  the  steady  helm.     Evening  came  on, 
'I'he  beams  of  sunset  hung  their  rainbow  hues 
High  'mid  the  shifting  domes  of  sheeted  spray 
That  canopied  his  path  o'er  the  waste  deep ; 
Twilight,  ascending  slowly  from  the  east, 
Entwined  in  duskier  wreaths  her  braided  locks 
O'er  the  fair  front  and  radiant  eyes  of  day ; 
Night  followed,  clad  with  stars.     On  every  side 
More  horribly  the  multitudinous  streams 
Of  ocean's  mountainous  waste  to  mutual  war 
Rushed  in  dark  tumult  thundering,  as  to  mock 
The  calm  and  spangled  sky.     The  little  boat 
Still  fled  before  the  storm ;  still  fled,  like  foam 
Down  the  steep  cataract  of  a  wintry  river; 
Now  pausing  on  the  edge  of  the  riven  wave ; 
Now  leaving  far  behind  the  bursting  mass 
That  fell,  convulsing  ocean.     Safely  fled — 
As  if  that  frail  and  wasted  human  form 
Had  been  an  elemental  god. 

At  midnight 
The  moon  arose  :  and  lo  !  the  ethereal  cliffs 
Of  Caucasus,  whose  icy  summits  shone 
Among  the  stars  like  sunlight,  and  around 
Whose  caverned  base  the  whirlpools  and  the  waves, 
Bursting  and  eddying  irresistibly. 
Rage  and  resound  forever. — Who  shall  save? — 
The  boat  fled  on, — the  boiling  torrent  drove, — 
The  crags  closed  round  with  black  and  jagged  anns, 
The  shattered  mountain  overhung  the  sea, 
And  faster  still,  beyond  all  human  speed, 
Suspended  on  the  sweep  of  the  smooth  wave, 
The  little  boat  was  driven.     A  cavern  there 
Yawned,  and  amid  its  slant  and  winding  depths 
Ingulfed  the  rushing  sea.     The  boat  fled  on 
With,  unrelaxing  speed.     "  Vision  and  Love  !" 
The  Poet  cried  aloud,  "  I  have  beheld 
The  path  of  thy  departure.     Sleep  and  death 
Shall  not  di^^de  us  long." 

The  boat  pursued 
The  windings  of  the  cavern.     Daylight  shone 
At  length  upon  that  gloomy  river's  flow ; 
Now,  where  the  fiercest  war  among  the  waves 
Is  calm,  on  the  unfathomable  stream  [riven. 

The  boat  moved  slowlj:.     Where  the   mountain, 
Exposed  those  black  depths  to  the  azure  sky, 
Ere  yet  the  flood's  enormous  volume  fell 
Even  to  the  base  of  Caucasus,  with  sound 
That  shook  the  everlasting  rocks,  the  mass 
Filled  with  one  whirlpool  all  that  ample  chasm; 
Stair  ahove  stair  the  eddying  waters  rose, 
Circling  immeasurably  fast,  and  laved 
With  alternating  dash  the  gnarled  roots 
Of  mighty  trees,  that  stretched  their  giant  arms 
In  darkness  over  it.     I'  the  midst  was  left. 
Reflecting,  yet  distorting  everv'  cloud, 
A  pool  of  treacherous  and  tremendous  calm. 
Seized  by  the  sway  of  the  ascending  stream. 
With  dizzy  swiftness,  round,  and  round,  and  round. 


64 


ALASTOR;    OR,    THE    SPIRIT    OF    SOLITUDE. 


Rid^c  aflf  r  ridge  the  straining  boat  arose, 

Till  on  the  verge  of  the  extromest  curve, 

AVherc  tiirough  an  opening  of  the  rot-ky  bank, 

The  waters  overllow,  and  a  smooth  spot 

Of  glassy  quiet  'mid  those  battling  tides 

Is  left,  the  boat  paused  shuddering.  Shall  it  sink 

Down  the  abyss  ]     Shall  the  reverting  stress 

Of  that  resistless  gulf  embosom  it  1 

Now  shall  it  fall  !   A  wandering  stream  of  wind. 

Breathed  from  the  W'ost,  has  caught  the  expanded 

And,  lo  !  the  gentle  motion  between  banks    [sail. 

Of  mossy  slope,  and  on  a  placid  stream, 

Beneath  a  woven  grove,  it  sails,  and,  hark ! 

The  ghastly  torrent  mingles  its  far  roar, 

With  the  breeze  murmuring  in  the  musical  woods. 

Where  the  embowering  trees  recede,  and  leave 

A  little  space  of  green  expanse,  the  cove 

Is  closed  by  meeting  banks,  whose  yellow  flowers 

For  ever  gaze  on  their  own  drooping  eyes, 

Reflected  in  the  crystal  calm.     The  wave 

Of  the  boat's  motion  marred  their  pensive  task, 

Which  nought  but  vagrant  bird,  or  wanton  wind. 

Or  falling  spear-grass,  or  their  own  decay 

Had  e'er  disturbed  l)efore.     The  Poet  longed 

To  deck  with  their  bright  hues  his  withered  hair, 

But  on  his  heart  its  sohtude  returned. 

And  he  forbore.     Not  the  strong  impulse  hid 

In  those  flushed  cheeks,  bent  eyes,  and  shadowy 

Had  )'et  performed  its  ministry  ;  it  hung      rframe 

Upon  his  life,  as  lightning  in  a  cloud 

Gleams,  hovering  ere  it  vanish,  ere  the  floods 

Of  night  close  over  it. 

The  noonday  sun 
Now  shone  upon  the  forest,  one  vast  mass 
Of  mingling  shade,  whose  brown  magnificence 
A  narrow  vale  embosoms.     There,  huge  caves, 
Scooped  in  the  dark  base  of  those  ac-ry  rocks 
Mocking  its  moans,  respond  and  roar  for  ever. 
The  meeting  boughs  and  implicated  leaves 
Wove  twilight  o'er  the  Poet's  path,  as  led 
By  love,  or  dream,  or  god,  or  mightier  Death, 
He  sought  in  Nature's  dearest  haunt,  some  bank. 
Her  cradle,  and  his  sepulchre.     More  dark 
And  dark  the  shades  accumulate — the  oak. 
Expanding  its  immense  and  knotty  arms. 
Embraces  the  light  beech.     The  pyramids 
Of  the  tall  cedar  overarching,  frame 
Most  solemn  domes  within,  and  far  below, 
Like  clouds  suspended  in  an  emerald  sky. 
The  ash  and  the  acacia  floating  hang  [clothed 

Tremulous    and    pale.      Like    restless    serpents. 
In  rainbow  and  in  fire,  the  parasites, 
Starr'd  with  ton  thousand  blossoms,  flow  around 
The  gray  trunks,  and,  as  gamesome  infants'  eyes. 
With  gentle  meanings,  and  most  innocent  wiles. 
Fold  their  beams  round  the  hearts  of  those  that  love," 
These  twine  their  tendrils  with  the  wedded  boughs 
Uniting  their  close  union  ;  t!ie  woven  leaves 
Make  net-work  of  the  dark  blue  light  of  day, 
And  the  night's  noontide  clearness,  mutable 
As  shapes  in  the  weird  cloiuls.     Soft  mossy  lawns 
Beneath  these  canopies  extend  their  swells. 
Fragrant  with    [)errumed    hcrl)s,   and    eyed  with 
Minute,  yet  beautiful.  One  darkest  glen     [blooms 


Sends   from  its  woods  of  musk-rose,  twined  with 
A  soul-dissolving  odour,  to  invite  [jasmine. 

To  some  more  lovely  mystery.     Through  the  dell, 
Silence  and  Twilight  here,  twin-sisters,  keep 
Their  noonday  watch,  and  sail  jimong  the  shades. 
Like  vaporous  shapes  half-seen  ;  beyond,  a  well, 
Dark,  gleaming,  and  of  most  translucent  wave, 
Images  all  the  woven  boughs  above. 
And  each  depending  leiif,  and  every  speck 
Of  azure  sky,  darting  between  their  chasms  ; 
Nor  aught  else  in  the  liquid  mirror  laves 
Its  portraiture,  but  some  inconstant  star 
Between  one  foliaged  lattice  twinkling  fair, 
Or  painted  bird,  sleeping  beneath  the  moon, 
Or  gorgeous  insect,  floating  motionless. 
Unconscious  of  the  day,  ere  yet  his  wings 
Have  spread  their  glories  to  the  gaze  of  noon. 

Hither  the  Poet  came.     His  eyes  beheld 
Their  own  wan  light  through  the  reflected  lines 
Of  his  thin  hair,  distinct  in  the  dark  depth 
Of  that  still  fountain  ;  as  the  human  heart, 
Gazing  in  dreams  over  the  gloomy  grave, 
Sees  its  own  treacherous  likeness  there.    He  heard 
The  motion  of  the  leaves,  the  grass  that  sprung 
Startled  and  glanced  and  trembled  even  to  feel 
An  unaccustomed  presence,  and  the  sound 
Of  the  sweet  brook  that  from  the  secret  springy 
Of  that  dark  fountain  rose.     A  Sj)irit  seemed* 
To  stand  beside  him — clothed  in  no  bright  robes 
Of  shadowy  silver  or  enshrining  light 
Borrow'd  from  aught  the  visible  world  afllbrds 
Of  grace,  or  majesty,  or  mystery  ; — 
But  undulating  woods,  and  silent  well. 
And  rippling  rivulet,  and  evening  gloom 
Now  deepening  the  dark  shades,  for  speech  as- 
Held  commune  with  him,  as  if  he  and  it       [suming 
Were  all  that  was, — only — when  his  regard 
Was  raised  by  intense  pcnsiveness, — two  eyes. 
Two  starry  eyes,  hung  in  the  gloom  of  thought. 
And  seemed  with  their  serene  and  azure  smiles 
To  beckon  him. 

Obedient  to  the  light 
That  shone  within  his  soul,  he  went,  piu-suing 
The  windings  of  the  dell. — The  riVulet 
Wanton  and  wild,  through  many  a  green  ravine 
Beneath  the  forest  flowed.     Sometimes  it  fell 
Among  the  moss,  with  hollow  harmony 
Dark  and  profound.     Now  on  the  polished  stones 
It  danced;  like  diildhood  laughing  as  it  went: 
Then,  through   the  plain   in  tranquil  wanderings 
Reflecting  every  herb  and  drooping  bud        [crept, 
That  overhung  its  quietness. — •'  O  stream  ! 
Whose  source  is  inaccessibly  profound. 
Whither  do  thy  mysterious  waters  tcndl 
Thou  imagest  my  life.     Thy  darksome  stillness. 
Thy  dazzUng  waves,  thy  loud  and  hollow  gulfs, 
Thy  searchlcss  fountain,  and  invisible  course 
Have  each  their  type  in  me:  And  the  wide  .sky, 
And  measureless  ocean  may  declare  as  soon 
What  oozy  cavern  or  what  wandering  cloud 
Contains  thy  waters,  as  the  universe 
Tell  where    these   living  thoughts    reside,  when 
stretched 


ALASTOR;     OR,  THE    SPIRIT    OF    SOLITUDE. 


65 


Upon  thy  flowers  my  bloocUcss  limbs  shall  waste 
r  the  passing  wind!" 

Beside  the  prassy  shore 
Of  Uie  small  stream  he  went ;  he  did  impress 
On  the  green  moss  his  tremulous  step,  that  eanght 
Strong  shuddering  from   his  burning  lindis.     As 

one 
Roused  by  some  joyous  madness  from  Iho  couch 
Of  fever,  he  did  move  ;  yet,  not  like  liim. 
Forgetful  of  the  grave,  where,  when  tliellame 
Of  his  frail  exultation  shall  be  spent, 
He  must  descend.     With  rapid  steps  he  went 
Beneath  the  shade  of  trees,  beside  the  flow 
Of  the  wild  babbling  rivulet ;  and  now 
The  forest's  solemn  canopies  were  changed 
For  the  uniform  and  lightsome  evening  sky. 
Gray  rocks  did  peep    trom   the  spare   moss,  and 

stemmed 
Tlie  struggling  brook :  tall  spires  of  windlestrae 
Threw  their  thin  shadows  down  the  rugged  slope. 
And  nought  but  gnarled  roots  of  ancient  pines 
Branchless  and  blasted,  clenched  with  grasping 

roots 
The  unwilling  soil.     A  gradual  change  was  here, 
Yet  ghastly.     For,  as  fast  years  flow  away, 
The  smooth  brow  gathers,  and  the  hair  grows  thin 
And  white  ;  and  where  irradiate  dewy  eyes 
Had  shone,  gleam  stony  orbs  :  so  from  his  steps 
Bright  flowers  departed,  and  the  beautiful  shade 
Of  the  green  groves,  with  all  their  odorous  winds 
And  musical  motions.     Calm,  he  still  pursued 
The  stream  that  with  a  larger  volume  now 
Rolled  through  the  labyrinthine  dell ;  and  therej 
Fretted  a  path  through  its  descending  curves 
With  'ts  wintry  speed.     On  every  side  now  rose 
Rocks,  which,  in  unimaginable  forms, 
Lifted  their  black  and  barren  pinnacles 
In  the  light  of  evening,  and  its  precipice 
Obscuring  the  ravine,  disclosed  above, 
'Mid  toppling  stones,  black  gulfs,  and  yawning  caves. 
Whose  windings  gave  ten  thousand  various  tongues 
To  the  loud  stream.    Lo  !  where  the  pass  expands 
Its  stony  jaws,  the  abrupt  mountain  breaks, 
And  seems,  with  its  accumulated  crags, 
To  overhang  the  world  :  for  wide  expand 
Beneath  the  wa7i  stars  and  descending  moon 
Islanded  seas,  blue  mountains,  mighty  streams. 
Dim  tracks  and  vast,  robed  in  the  lustrous  gloom 
Of  leaden-coloured  even,  and  fierj?  hills 
Mingling  their  flames  with  twilight,  on  the  verge 
Of  the  remote  horizon.     The  near  scene, 
In  naked  and  severe  simplicity. 
Made  contrast  with  the  universe.     A  pine, 
Rock-rooted,  stretched  athwart  the  vacancy 
Its  swinging  boughs,  to  each  inconstant  blast 
Yielding  one  only  response,  at  each  pause, 
In  most  familiar  cadence,  with  the  howl 
The  thunder  and  the  hiss  of  homeless  streams 
Mingling  its  solemn  song,  whilst  the  broad  river, 
Foaming  and  hurrying  o'er  its  rugged  path, 
Fell  into  that  immeasurable  void, 
Scattering  its  waters  to  the  passing  winds. 
Yet  the  gray  precipice,  and  solemn  pino 
And  ton-ent  were  not  all ; — one  silent  nook 


Was  there.     Even  on  the  edge  of  that  vast  moun- 

Upbeld  by  knotty  roots  and  fallen  rocks,         [tain 

It  overlooked  in  its  serenity 

'J'hc  dark  earth,  and  the  bending  vault  of  stars. 

It  was  a  tranquil  s])ot,  that  seemed  to  smile 

Even  in  the  lap  of  horror.     Ivy  clasped 

The  fissured  stones  with  its  entwining  amis. 

And  did  embower  with  leaves  for  ever  green, 

And  berries  dark,  the  smooth  and  even  space  ■ 

Of  its  inviolated  floor,  and  here 

The  children  of  the  autiunnal  whirlwind  bore, 

In  wanton  sport,  those  bright  leaves,  whose  decay. 

Red,  yellow,  or  etherially  pale. 

Rival  the  pride  of  sununer.     'Tis  the-haunt 

Of  cveiy  gentle  wind,  whose  breath  can  teach 

The  wilds  to  love  tranquillity.     One  step, 

One  human  step  alone,  has  ever  broken 

The  stillness  of  its  solitude : — one  voice 

Alone  inspired  its  echoes; — even  that  voice 

Which  hither  came,  floating  among  the  winds, 

And  led  the  loveliest  among  human  forms 

To  make  their  wild  haunts  the  depository 

Of  all  the  grace  and  beauty  that  endued 

Its  motions,  render  up  its  majesty. 

Scatter  its  music  on  the  unfeeling  storm. 

And  to  the  damp  leaves  and  blue  cavern  mould, 

IVurses  of  rainbow  flowers  and  branching  moss. 

Commit  the  colours  of  that  vaiying  cheek. 

That  snowy  breast,  those  dark  and  droopmg  eyes. 

The  dim  and  hornctl  moon  hung  low,  and  poured 

A  sea  of  lustre  on  the  horizon's  verge 

That  overflowed  its  mountains.     Yellow  mist 

Filled  the  unbounded  atmosphere,  and  drank 

Wan  moonlight  even  to  fulness  :  not  a  star 

Shone,  not  a  sound  was  heard ;  the  very  winds 

Danger's  grim  playmates,  on  that  precipice 

Slept,  clasped  in  his  embrace. — 0,  storm  of  death ! 

Whose  sightless  speed  divides  this  sullen  night: 

And  thou,  colossal  Skeleton,  that,  still 

Guiding  its  irresistible  career 

In  thv  devastating  omni]Jotence, 

Art  king  of  this  frail  world,  from  the  red  field 

Of  slaughter,  from  the  reeking  hospital. 

The  patriot's  sacred  couch,  the  snowy  bed 

Of  innocence,  the  scaflbld  and  the  throne, 

A  mighty  voice  invokes  thee.     Ruui  calls 

His  brother  Death.     A  rare  and  regal  prey 

He  hath  prepared,  prowling  around  the  wgrld  ; 

Glutted  with  which  thou  may'st  repose,  and  men 

Go  to  their  graves  like  flowers  or  creeping  wonus. 

Nor  ever  more  oftcr  at  thy  dark  shrine 

The  unheeded  tribute  of  a  broken  heart. 

When  on  the  threshold  of  the  green  recess 
The  wanderer's  footsteps  fell,  he  knew  that  death 
Was  on  him.     Yet  a  little,  ere  it  fled, 
Did  he  resign  his  high  and  holy  soul 
To  images  of  the  majestic  past, 
That  paused  vvithin  his  passive  being  now, 
Like  winds  that  bear  sweet  music,  when  they  breathe 
Through  some  disn  latticed  chamber.  He  did  place 
His  pale  lean  hand  upon  the  rugged  trunk 
Of  the  old  pine.     U])on  an  ivied  stone 
Reclined  his  languid  head,  his  limbs  did  rest. 


66 


EDITOR'S    NOTE    ON    ALASTOR. 


Diffused  and  motionless,  on  the  smooth  brink 

Of  that  obscurest  chasm; — and  thus  he  hiy, 

SuiTcndoring  to  their  final  impulses 

The  hovcrini^  powers  of  life.     Hope  and  despair, 

The  torturers,  slrpt :  no  mortal  pain  or  fear 

Marred  his  repose,  the  influxes  of  sense, 

And  his  own  lieiiip;  unalloyed  by  pain. 

Yet  feebler  and  more  feeble,  calmly  fed 

The  stream  of  thought,  till  he  lay  breathing  there 

At  peace,  and  faintly  smiling : — his  last  sight 

Was  the  great  moon,  which  o'er  the  western  line 

Of  the  wiile  world  her  mighty  horn  suspended, 

With  wliose  dun  beams  inwoven  darkness  seemed 

To  mingle.     Now  upon  the  jagged  hills 

It  rests,  and  still  as  tlic  divided  frame 

Of  the  vast  meteor  sunk,  the  Poet's  blood, 

That  ever  beat  in  mystic  sympathy 

With  nature's  ebb  and  flow,  grew  feebler  still : 

And  when  two  lessening  points  of  light  alone 

Gleamed  through  the  darkness,  the  alternate  gasp 

Of  his  faint  respiration  scarce  did  stir 

The  stagnate  night : — till  the  mmutest  ray 

Was  quenched,  the  pulse  yet  lingered  in  his  heart. 

It  paused — it  fluttered.  But  when  heaven  remained 

Utterly  black,  the  murky  shades  involved 

An  image,  silent,  cold,  and  motionless, 

As  their  own  voiceless  earth  and  vacant  air. 

Even  as  a  vapour  fed  with  golden  beams 

That  ministered  on  sunlight,  ere  the  west 

Eclipses  it,  was  now  that  wondrous,  frame — 

No  sense,  no  motion,  no  dinnity — 

A  fragile  lute,  on  whose  harmonious  strings 

The  breath  of  heaven  did  wander — abri'ght  stream 

Once  fed  with  many-voiced  waves — a  dream 

Of  youth,  whicli  night  and  time  have  quenched  for 

ever, 
Still,  dark,  and  dry,  and  unremembered  now. 

O,  for  Medea's  wondrous  alchymy, 
Which  whercsoc'cr  it  fell  made  the  earth  gleam 
With    bright    flowers,    and    the    wintry    boughs 

exhale 
From  vernal  blooms  fresh  fragrance  !  O,  that  God, 
Profuse  of  poisons,  would  concede  the  chalice 


Which  but  one  living  man  has  drained,  who  now, 

Vessel  of  deathless  wrath,  a  slave  that  feels 

No  proud  exemption  in  the  blighting  curse 

He  bears,  over  the  world  wanders  for  ever, 

Lone  as  incarnate  death  !   (),  that  the  dream 

Of  dark  magician  in  hisvisioned  cave, 

Raking  the  cinders  of  a  crucible 

For  life  and  jiower,  even  when  his  feeble  hand 

Shakes  in  its  last  decay,  were  the  true  law 

Of  this  so  lovely  world!     But  thou  art  fled 

Like  some  frail  exhalation,  which  the  dawn 

Robes  in  its  golden  beams, — ah  !  thou  hast  fled ! 

The  brave,  the  gentle,  and  the  beautiful. 

The  child  of  grace  and  genius.     Heartless  things 

Are  done  and  said  i'  the  world,  and  many  worms 

And  beasts  and  men  live  on,  and  mighty  Earth 

From  sea  and  mountain,  city  and  wilderness, 

In  vesper  low  or  joyous  orison. 

Lifts  still  its  solemn  voice  : — but  thou  art  fled — 

Thou  canst  no  longer  know  or  love  the  shapes 

Of  this  phantasmal  scene,  who  have  to  thee 

Been  purest  ministers,  who  are,  alas  ! 

Now  thou  art  not.     Upon  those  pallid  lips 

So  sweet  even  in  their  silence,  on  those  eyes 

That  image  sleep  in  death,  upon  that  form 

Yet  safe  from  the  worm's  outrage,  let  no  tear 

Be  shed — not  even  in  thought.     Nor,  when  tliose 

Are  gone,  and  those  divinest  lineaments,         [hues 

Worn  by  the  senseless  wind,  shall  live  iilone 

In  the  frail  pauses  of  this  simple  strain. 

Let  not  high  verse,  mourning  the  memory 

Of  that  which  is  no  more,  or  painting's  wo 

Or  sculpture,  speak  in  feeble  imagery 

Their  own  cold  powers.     Art  and  eloquence. 

And  all  the  shows  o'  the  world,  are  frail  and  vain 

To  weep  a  loss  that  turns  their  light  to  shade. 

It  is  a  wo  "  too  deep  for  tears,"  when  all 

Is  refl  at  once,  when  some  surpassing  Spirit, 

Whose  light  adorned  the  world  around  it,  leaves 

Those  who  remain  behind  nor  sobs  nor  groans. 

The  passionate  tumult  of  a  clinging  hope ; 

But  pale  despair  and  cold  tranquillity. 

Nature's  vast  frame,  the  web  of  human  tilings. 

Birth  and  the  grave,  that  are  not  as  they  were. 


NOTE  ON  ALASTOR. 


BY  THE  EDITOR. 


"Alastor"  is  WTitten  in  a  very  different  tone 
from  "  Queen  Mab."  In  the  latter,  Shelley  poured 
out  all  the  cherished  speculations  of  his  youth — all 
the  irrepressible  emotions  of  sj'mpathy,  censure, 
and  hope,  to  which  the  present  sufl'ering,  and  what 
he  considers  the  proper  destiny  of  his  fellow-crea- 
tures, gave  birth.  "Alastor,"  on  the  contrary, 
contains  an  individual  interest  only.  A  very  few 
years,  with  tlieir  attendant  events,  had  checked 
the    ardour  of   Shelley's    hopes,  though    he   still 


thought  them  well  grounded,  and  that  to  advance 
their  fulfilment  was  the  noblest  task  man  could 
achieve. 

This  is  neither  the  time  nor  place  to  speak  of 
the  misfortunes  that  chequered  his  life.  It  will  be 
sufficient  to  say,  that  in  all  he  did,  he  at  the  time 
of  doing  it  believed  himself  justified  to  his  own 
conscience;  while  the  various  ills  of  poverty  and 
loss  of  friends  brouffht  home  to  liim  the  sad  realities 


EDITOR'S    NOTE    ON    ALASTOR. 


67 


of  life.  Physical  suficring  had  also  considerable 
influence  in  causing  him  to  turn  his  eyes  inward ; 
inclining  him  rather  to  brood  over  the  thoughts 
and  emotions  of  his  own  soul,  than  to  glance 
abroad,  and  to  make,  as  in  "  Quc(ui  Mab,"  the 
whole  universe  the  object  and  subject  of  his  song. 
In  the  spring  of  1815,  an  eminent  physician  pro- 
nounced that  he  was  dying  rapidly  of  a  consump- 
tion ;  abscesses  were  formed  on  liis  lungs,  and  he 
sulfered  acute  spasms.  Suddenly  a  complete  change 
took  place;  and  though  through  life  he  was  a 
martyr  to  pain  and  debility,  every  symptom  of 
pulmonary  disease  vanished.  His  nerves,  which 
nature  had  formed  sensitive  to  an  unexampled  de- 
gree, were  rendered  still  more  susceptible  by  the 
state  of  his  health. 

As  soon  as  the  peace  of  1814  had  opened  the 
continent,  he  went  abroad.  He  \'isited  some  of 
tlie  more  magnificent  scenes  of  Switzerland,  and 
returned  to  England  from  Lucerne,  by  the  Rcuss 
and  the  Rhine.  This  river  navigation  enchanted 
him.  In  his  favourite  poem  of  "  Thalaba,"  his 
imagination  had  been  excited  by  a  description  of 
such  a  voyage.  In  the  summer  of  1815,  after  a 
tour  along  the  southern  coast  of  Devonshire  and 
a-vdsit  to  Chfton,  he  rented  a  house  on  Bishopgate 
Heath,  on  the  borders  of  Windsor  Forest,  where 
he  enjoyed  several  months  of  comparative  health 
and  tranquil  happiness.   The  later  summer  months 


were  warm  and  dry.  Accompsjnied  by  a  few 
friends,  he  visited  the  source  of  the  Thames,  makin'^ 
the  voyage  in  a  wherry  from  Windsor  to  Crichlade 
His  beautiful  stanzas  in  the  churchyard  of  Lcch- 
lade  were  written  on  that  occasion.  "Alastor" 
was  composed  on  his  return.  He  spent  his  days 
under  the  oak-shades  of  Windsor  Great  Park ;  and 
the  magnificent  woodland'  was  a  fitting  study  to 
inspire  the  various  descriptions  of  forest  scenery 
we  find  in  the  poem. 

None  of  Shelley's  poems  is  more  characteristic 
than  this.  The  solemn  spirit  that  reigns  through- 
out, the  worship  of  the  majesty  of  nature,  the 
broodings  of  a  poet's  heart  in  solitude — the  min- 
gling of  the  exulting  joy  which  the  various  aspect 
of  the  visible  universe  inspires,  with  the  sad  and 
struggling  pangs  which  human  passion  imparts, 
give  a  touching  interest  to  the  whole.  The  death 
which  he  had  often  contemplated  during  the  last 
months  as  certain  and  near,  he  here  represented 
in  such  colours  as  had,  in  his  lonely  musings, 
soothed  his  soul  to  peace.  The  versification  sus- 
tains the  solemn  spirit wliich  breathes  throughout: 
it  is  peculiarly  melodious.  The  poem  ought  ratlier 
to  be  considered  didactic  than  narrative :  it  was 
the  outpouring  of  his  owni  emotions,  embodied  in 
the  purest  form  he  could  conceive,  painted  in  the 
ideal  hues  wliich  his  brilliant  imagination  inspired, 
and  softened  by  the  recent  anticipation  of  death. 


END  OF  ALASTOR. 


THE  EEYOLT  OF  ISLAM. 

':\  Poem. 

IN  TWELVE  CANTOS. 


Ojaij  Si  PpOTOD  tOwj  'iyXai'aij  aTTT6fitaQa 

Wtpalvti  n-pdf  itrxarov 
nXooV  vavai  S  oSirc  jrE^df  iuii'  av  ci'pois 
'Ej  VTtcpffupcoyv  dyoiva  daujxaTaf  oiov. 

TlivS.  Uvd.  X. 


PREFACE. 


The  Poem  which  I  now  present  to  the  world, 
is  an  attempt  from  which  I  scarcely  dare  to  expect 
success,  and  in  which  a  writer  of  established  fame 
might  fail  without  disgrace.  It  is  an  experiment 
on  the  temper  of  the  public  mind,  as  to  how  far 
a  thirst  for  a  happier  condition  of  moral  and 
political  society  survives,  among  the  enlightened 
and  refined,  the  tempests  which  have  shaken  the 
age  in  which  we  live.  I  have  sought  to  enlist  the 
harmony  of  metrical  language,  the  etherial  com- 
binations of  the  fancy,  the  rapid  and  subtle  transi- 
tions of  human  passion,  all  those  elements  which 
essentially  compose  a  Poem,  in  the  cause  of  a 
liberal  and  comprehensive  -morality ;  and  in  the 
view  of  kindling  within  the  bosoms  of  my  readers, 
a  virtuous  enthusiasm  for  those  doctrines  of  liberty 
and  justice,  that  faith  and  hope  in  something  good, 
which  neither  violence,  nor  misrepresentation,  nor 
prejudice,  can  ever  totally  extinguish  among 
mankind. 

For  this  purpose,  I  have  chosen  a  story  of  hu- 
man passion  in  its  most  universal  character,  diver- 
sified with  moving  and  romantic  adventures,  and 
appealing,  in  contempt  of  all  artificial  opinions  or 
institutions,  to  the  connnon  sym])athies  of  every 
human  breast.  I  have  made  no  attempt  to  recom- 
mend the  motives  which  I  would  substitute  for 
those  at  present  governing  mankind,  by  methodical 
and  systematic  argument.  I  would  only  awaken 
the  feelings  so  that  the  reader  should  see  the 
beauty  of  true  virtue,  and  be  incited  to  those  in- 
.quiries  which  have  led  to  my  moral  and  political 
creed,  and  that  of  some  of  the  sublimest  intellects  in 
the  world.  The  Poem,  therefore,  (with  the  excep- 
tion of  the  first  Canto,  which  is  purely  introduc- 
tory,) is  narrative,  not  didactic.  It  is  a  succession 
of  pictures  illustrating  the  growth  and  progress  of 
individual  mind  aspiring  after  excellence,  and  de- 
voted to  the  love  of  mankind  ;  its  influence  in  refin- 
ing and  making  pure  the  most  daring  and  uncommon 
impulses  of  the  imagination,  the  understanding, 
and  the  senses ;  its  impatience  at  "  all  the  oppres- 
sions which  are  done  under  the  sun ;"  its  tendency 


to  awaken  pul)lic  hope  and  to  enlighten  and  im- 
prove mankind  ;  the  raj)id  effects  of  the  application 
of  that  tendency ;  the  awakening  of  an  immense 
nation  from  their  slavery  and  degradation  to  a  true 
sense  of  moral  dignity  and  freedom ;  the  bloodless 
dethronement  of  their  opjiressors,  and  the  unveihng 
of  the  religious  frauds  by  which  they  had  been  de- 
luded into  submission ;  the  tranquillity  of  successful 
patriotism,  and  the  universal  toleration  and  benevo- 
lence of  true  philanthropy ;  the  treachery  and 
barbarity  of  hired  soldiers;  vice  not  the  object  of 
punishment  and  hatred,  but  kindness  and  pity;  the 
faithlessness  of  tyrants ;  the  confederacy  of  the 
Rulers  of  the  World,  and  the  restoration  of  the  ex- 
pelled Dynasty  by  foreign  arms ;  the  massacre  and 
extermination  of  the  Patriots,  and  the  victory  of 
established  power ;  the  consccpiences  of  legitimate 
despotism,  civil  war,  famine,  plague,  superstition, 
and  an  utter  extinction  of  the  domestic  aflcctions; 
the  judicial  murder  of  the  advocates  of  Liberty; 
the  temporary  triumph  of  oppression,  that  secure 
earnest  of  its  final  and  inevitable  fall ;  the  transient 
nature  of  ignorance  and  error,  and  the  eternity  of 
genius  and  virtue.  Such  is  the  series  of  delinea- 
tions of  which  the  Poem  consists.  And  if  the 
lofty  passions  with  which  it  has  been  my  scope  to 
distinguish  this  story,  shall  not  excite  in  the  reader 
a  generous  impulse,  an  ardent  thirst  for  excellence, 
an  interest  profound  and  strong,  such  as  belongs 
to  no  meaner  desires — let  not  the  failure  be  imputed 
to  a  natural  unfitness  for  human  sympathy  in  these 
sublime  and  animating  themes.  It  is  the  business 
of  the  Poet  to  comnuinicate  to  others  the  pleasure 
and  the  enthusiasm  arising  out  of  those  images 
and  feelings,  in  the  vivid  presence  of  which  with  his 
own  mind,  consists  at  once  his  inspiration  and  his 
reward. 

The  panic  which,  like  an  epidemic  transport, 
seiz.ed  upon  all  classes  of  men  during  the  excesses 
consequent  upon  the  French  Revolution,  is  gradu- 
ally giving  ])lace  to  sanity.  It  has  ceased  to  be 
believed,  that  whole  generations  of  mankind  ought 
to  con.sign  them.selves  to  a  hopeless  inheritance 
of  ignorance  and  misery,  because  a  nation  of  n)en 
who  had  been  dujies  and  slaves  for  centuries,  were 
incapable  of  cond  uctiiig  themselves  with  the  wisdom 


THE    REV.OLT    OF    ISLAM. 


69 


and  tranquillity  of  freemen  so  soon  as  some  of  their 
fetters  were  j)arti;illy  loosened.  That  their  conduct 
could  not  have  heeii  marked  by  any  other  characters 
than  ferocity  and  thoughtlessness,  is  the  historical 
fact  from  which  liberty  derives  all  its  recommenda- 
tions, and  falsehood  the  worst  features  of  its  de- 
formity. There  is  a  reflux  in  the  tide  of  human 
things  which  bears  the  shipwrecked  hopes  of  men 
into  a  secure  haven,  after  the  storms  are  past. 
Methinks,  those  who  now  live  have  survived  an  age 
of  despair. 

The  French  Revolution  may  be  considered  as 
one  of  those  manifestations  of  a  general  state  of 
feeling  among  civilized  mankind,  produced  by  a 
defect  of  correspondence  between  the  knowledge 
existing  in  society  and  the  improvement  or  gradual 
abolition  of  political  institutions.  The  year  1788 
may  be  assumed  as  the  epoch  of  one  of  the  most 
important  crises  produced  by  this  feeling.  The 
sympathies  connected  with  that  event  extended  to 
every  bosom.  The  most  generous  and  amiable 
natures  were  those  which  participated  the  most 
extensively  in  these  sympathies.  But  such  a 
degree  of  unmingled  good  was  expected,  as  it  was 
impossible  to  realize.  If  the  Revolution  had  been 
in  every  respect  prosperous,  then  misrule  and 
superstition  would  lose  half  their  claims  to  our  ab- 
horrence, as  fetters  which  the  captive  can  unlock 
with  the  slightest  motion  of  his  fingers,  and  which 
do  not  eat  with  poisonous  rust  into  the  soul.  The 
revulsion  occasioned  by  the  atrocities  of  the  dema- 
gogues and  the  re-establishment  of  successive 
tyrannies  in  France  was  ten^ible,  and  felt  in  the 
remotest  corner  of  the  civilized  world.  Could  they 
listen  to  the  plea  of  reason  who  had  groaned  under 
the  calamities  of  a  social  state,  according  to  the 
provisions  of  which,  one  man  riots  in  luxury  whilst 
another  famishes  for  want  of  bread  1  Can  he  who 
the  day  before  was  a  trampled  slave,  suddenly  be- 
come liberal-minded,  forbearing,  and  independent] 
This  is  the  consequence  of  the  habits  of  a  state 
of  society  to  be  produced  by  resolute  perseverance 
and  indefatigable  hope,  and  long-sulTering  and 
long-bejieving  courage,  and  the  systematic  efforts 
of  generations  of  men  of  intellect  and  virtue. 
Such  is  the  lesson  which  experience  teaches  now. 
But  on  the  first  reverses  of  hope  in  the  progress 
of  French  liberty,  the  sanguine  eagerness  for  good 
overleaped  the  solution  of  these  questions,  and  for 
a  time  extinguished  itself  in  the  unexpectedness 
of  their  result.  Thus  many  of  the  most  ardent 
and  tender-hearted  of  the  worshipj)crs  of  public 
good  have  been  morally  ruined,  by  what  a  partial 
glimpse  of  the  events  they  deplored,  appeared  to 
show  as  the  melancholy  desolation  of  all  their 
cherished  hopes.  Hence  gloom  and  misanthropy 
have  become  the  characteristics  of  the  age  in  which 
we  live,  the  solace  of  a  disapjiointrncnt  that  un- 
consciously finds  relief  only  in  the  wilful  exaggera- 
tion of  iti  own  despair.  This  influence  has  tainted 
the  literature  of  the  age  with  the  hopelessness  of 
the  minds  firom  which  it   flows.      Metaphysics,* 

*  I  ouL'ht  to  except  Sir  W.  Drumnioiut's  "  Academi- 
cal Questions;"  a  volume  of  very  acute  and  powerful 
metaphysical  criticism. 


and  inquiries  into  moral  and  political  science,  have 
become  Httle  else  than  vain  attempts  to  revive  ex- 
ploded superstitions,  or  sophisms  like  those*  of 
Mr.  Malthus,  calculated  to  lull  the  oppressors  of 
mankind  into  a  security  of  everlasting  triumy)h.- 
Our  works  of  fiction  and  poetry  have  been  over- 
shadowed by  the  same  infectious  gloom.  But 
mankind  ap[)ear  to  me  to  be  emerging  from  their 
trance.  I  am  aware,  methinks,  of  a  slow,  gradual, 
silent  change.  In  that  belief  I  have  composed  the 
following  Poem. 

I  do  not  presume  to  enter  into  competition  with 
our  greatest  contemporary  Poets.  Yet  I  am  un- 
willing to  tread  in  the  footsteps  of  any  who  have 
preceded  me.  I  have  sought  to  avoid  the  imita- 
tion of  any  style  of  language  or  versification  pecu- 
liar to  the  original  minds  of  which  it  is  the  cha- 
racter, designing  that  even  if  what  I  have  produced 
be  worthless,  it  should  still  be  properly  my  own. 
Nor  have  I  permitted  any  system  relating  to  mere 
words,  to  divert  the  attention  of  the  reader  from 
whatever  interest  I  may  have  succeeded  in  creating, 
to  my  own  ingenuity  in  contriving  to  disgust  them 
according  to  the  rules  of  criticism.  I  ha-ve  simply 
clothed  my  thoughts  in  what  appeared  to  me  the 
most  obvious  and  appropriate  language.  A  person 
familiar  with  nature,  and  with  the  most  celebrated 
productions  of  the  human  mind,  can  scarcely  err 
in  following  the  instinct,  with  respect  to  selection 
of  language,  produced  by  that  familiarity. 

There  is  an  education  peculiarly  fitted  for  a  Poet, 
without  which,  genius  and  sensibility  can  hardly 
fill  the  circle  of  their  capacities.  No  education 
indeed  can  entitle  to  this  appellation  a  dull  and 
unobservant  mind,  or  one,  though  neither  dull  nor 
unobservant,  in  which  the  channels  of  communi- 
cation between  thought  and  expression  have  been 
obstructed  or  closed.  How  far  it  is  my  fortune  to 
belong  to  cither  of  the  latter  classes,  I  cannot  know. 
I  aspire  to  be  something  better.  The  circumstances 
of  my  accidental  education  have  been  favourable 
to  this  ambition.  I  have  been  familiar  from  boy- 
hood with  mountains  and  lakes,  and  the  sea,  and 
the  solitude  of  forests  :  Danger,  which  sports  upon 
the  brink  of  precipices,  has  been  my  playmate.  I 
have  trodden  the  glaciers  of  the  Alps,  and  lived 
under  the  eye  of  Mont  Blanc.  I  have  been  a 
wanderer  among  distant  fields.  I  have  sailed  down 
mighty  rivers,  and  seen  the  sun  rise  and  set,  and 
the  stars  come  forth,  whilst  I  have  sailed  night  and 
day  down  a  rapid  stream  among  mountains.  I 
have  seen  populous  cities,  and  have  watched  the 
passions  which  rise  and  s{)read,and  sink  and  change, 
amongst  assembled  multitudes  of  men.  I  have 
seen  the  theatre  of  the  more  visible  ravages  of 
tyranny  and  war,  cities  and  villages  reduced  to 
scattered  groups  of  black  and  roofless  houses,  and 

*  It  is  remarkable,  as  a  symptom  of  the  revival  of 
piililic  hop(^,th:il  Mr.  Miilthus  h:is  assisned,  in  the  later 
editions  of  his  work,  an  indefinite  dominion  to  moral 
restraint  over  the  principle  of  population.  This  conces- 
sion answers  all  the  inferences  from  his  doctrine  un- 
favourable to  human  improvement  and  reduces  the 
"  Ess.iY  ON  PopiLATioN,"  to  a  commentary  illustrative 
of  the  unansvverahleness  of  "Political  Justice. 


70 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


t]\e  naked  inhabitants  sitting  famished  upon  tlicir 
dcsolak'ri  thresholds.  I  have  conversed  with  living 
men  of  genius.  The  poetry  of  ancient  Greece 
and  Rome,  ajul  modern  Italy,  and  our  own  country, 
has  been  to  me  like  external  nature,  a  passion  and 
an  enjoyment.  Such  are  the  sources  from  which 
the  materials  for  the  imacrery  of  my  Poem  have 
been  drawn.  I  have  considered  Poetry  in  its  most 
comprehensive  sense,  and  have  read  the  Poets  and 
the  Historians,  and  the  Metaphysicians*  whose 
writings  have  been  accessible  to  me,  and  have 
looked  upon  the  beautiful  and  majestic  scenery  of 
the  e;uth  as  common  sources  of  those  elements 
which  it  is  the  province  of  the  Poet  to  embody  and 
combine.  Yet  the  experience  and  the  feelings  to 
which  I  refer,  do  not  in  themselves  constitute  men 
Poeta,  but  only  prepare  them  to  be  the  auditors  of 
those  who  arc.  How  far  I  shall  be  found  to  pos- 
sess that  more  essential  attribute  of  Poetry,  the 
power  of  awakening  in  others  sensations  like 
those  which  animate  my  own  bosom,  is  that  which, 
to  speak  sincerely,  I  know  not ;  and  which,  with 
an  acquiescent  and  contented  spirit,  I  expect  to  be 
taught  by  the  clfect  which  I  shall  produce  upon 
those  whom  I  now  address. 

I  have  avoided,  as  I  have  said  before,  the  imita- 
tion of  any  contemporary  style.  But  there  must 
be  a  resemblance,  which  does  not  depend  upon 
their  own  will,  between  all  the  writers  of  any  par- 
ticular age.  They  cannot  escape  from  subjection 
to  a  common  influence  which  arises  out  of  an  in- 
finite combination  of  circumstances  belonging  to 
the  times  in  which  they  live,  though  each  is  in  a 
degree  the  author  of  the  very  influence  by  which 
his  being  is  tlius  pervaded.  Thus,  the  tragic  Poets 
of  the  age  of  Pericles;  the  Italian  revivers  of  an- 
cient learning;  those  miglity  intellects  of  our  own 
country  that  succeeded  the  Reformation,  the  trans- 
lators x>f  the  Bible,  Shakspcarc,  Spencer,  the  Dra- 
matists of  the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  and  Lord  Bacon  ;t 
the  colder  spirits  of  the  interval  that  succeeded; — 
all  resemble  each  other,  and  dilfer  from  even,'  other 
in  their  several  classes.  In  this  view  of  things, 
Ford  can  no  more  be  called  the  imitator  of  Shaks- 
pearc,than  Shakspeare  the  imitator  of  Ford.  There 
were  perhaps  few  other  points  of  resemblance  be- 
tween these  two  men,  than  that  which  the  univer- 
sal and  inevitable  influence  of  their  age  produced. 
And  this  is  an  influence  which  neither  tiie  meanest 
scribbler,  nor  the  suldimcst  genius  of  any  era,  can 
escape  ;  and  which  I  have  not  attempted  to  escape. 

I  have  adojited  the  stanza  of  Spencer  (a  measure 
inexpressibly  beautiful,)  not  because  I  consider  it 
a  finer  model  of  poetical  harmony  than  the  blank 
verse  of  Shakspeare  and  Milton,  but  because  in  the 
latter  there  is  no  shelter  for  mediocrity  :  you  must 
either  succeed  or  fail.  This  perhaps  an  aspiring 
spirit  should  desire.  But  I  was  enticed,  also,  by 
the  brilhancy  and  magnificence  of  sound  which  a 


*  In  this  sense  there  may  be  such  a  thing  as  perfecti- 
bility in  works  of  fiction,  notwithstanding  the  conces- 
sion often  made  by  the  advocates  of  liuman  improve- 
ment, that  perfectibility  is  a  term  applicable  only  to 
science. 

t  Milton  stands  alone  in  the  age  which  he  illumined. 


mind  that  has  been  nourished  upon  musical 
thoughts,  can  produce  by  a  just  and  harmonious 
arrangement  of  the  pauses  of  this  measure.  Yet 
there  \vill  be  found  some  instances  where  I  have 
completely  failed  in  this  attem7)t,  and  one,  which 
I  here  request  the  reader  to  consider  as  an  erratum, 
where  there  is  left  most  inadvertently  an  alexan- 
drine in  the  middle  of  a  stanza. 

But  in  this,  as  in  every  other  respect,  I  have 
written  fearlessly.  It  is  the  misfortune  of  this 
age,  that  it.s  Writers,  too  thoughtless  of  immorUdi- 
ty,  are  exquisitely  .sensible  to  temporary  praise  or 
blame.  They  write  with  the  fear  of  Reviews  be- 
fore their  eye.s.  This  system  of  criticism  sprang 
up  in  that  torjjid  interval  when  Poetry  was  not. 
Poetry,  and  the  art  which  professes  to  regidate  and 
Umit  its  powers,  cannot  subsist  together.  Longinus 
could  not  have  been  the  contemporary  of  Homer, 
nor  Boileau  of  Horace.  Yet  this  species  of  criti- 
cism never  presumed  to  assert  an  understanding  of 
its  own :  it  has  always,  unlike  true  science,  fol- 
lowed, not  preceded,  the  opinion  of  mankind,  and 
would  even  now  bribe  with  worthless  adulation 
some  of  our  greatest  Poets  to  impose  gratuitous 
fetters  on  their  own  imaginations,  and  become  un- 
conscious accomplices  in  the  daily  murder  of  all 
genius  either  not  so  aspiring  or  not  .so  fortunate  as 
their  own.  I  have  sought  therefore  to  write,  as  I 
believe  that  Homer,  Shakspeare,  and  Milton  wrote, 
with  an  utter  disregard  of  anonymous  censure.  1 
am  certaiia  that  calumny  and  misrepresentation, 
though  it  may  move  me  to  compassion,  cannot  dis- 
turb my  peace.  I  shall  understand  the  expressive 
silence  of  those  sagacious  enemies  who  dare  not 
trust  themselves  to  speak.  I  shall  endeavour  to  ex- 
tract from  the  midst  of  insult,  and  contemj)t,  and 
maledictions,  those  admonitions  which  may  tend  to 
correct  whatever  imperfections  such  censurers  may 
discover  in  this  my  first  serious  appeal  to  the  Public. 
If  certain  Critics  were  as  clear-sighted  as  they  are 
malignant,  how  great  would  be  the  benefit  to  be 
derived  from  their  virulent  writings  !  As  it  is,  I 
fear  I  shall  be  malicious  enough  to  be  amused  with 
their  jialtry  tricks  and  lame  invectives.  Should  the 
Public  judge  that  my  composition  is  worthless.  I  .-ihall 
indeed  bow  before  the  tribunal  from  which  Milton 
received  his  crown  of  immortality,  and  shall  seek 
to  gather,  if  I  live,  strength  from  that  defeat,  which 
may  nerve  me  to  some  new  enterprise  of  thought 
which  may  not  be  worthless.  I  cannot  conceive 
that  Lucretius,  when  he  meditated  that  jjoem  who.se 
doctrines  are  yet  the  basis  of  our  metajjhysical 
knowledge,  and  whose  eloquence  has  l)cen  the 
wonder  of  mankind,  wrote  in  awe  of  such  cen- 
sure as  the  hired  sophists  of  the  impure  and  super- 
stitious nolilemen  of  Rome  might  aflix  to  what  he 
should  produce.  It  was  at  the  period  when  (Jreece 
was  led  captive,  and  Asia  made  tributary  to  the  Re- 
pulilic,  fast  verging  itself  to  slavery  and  ruin,  that 
a  multitude  of  Syrian  cajitives,  bigoted  to  the  wor- 
ship of  their  obscene  Ashtaroth,  and  the  unworthy 
successors  of  Socrates  and  Zeno,  found  there  a 
precarious  subsistence  by  administeiing,  under  the 
name  of  freedmen,  to  the  vices  and  the  vanities  of 
the  great.     These  wretched  men  were  skilled   to 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


71 


plead,  with  a  superficial  but  plausible  set  of  so- 
phisms, in  fiivour  of  tluit  contempt  for  virtue  which 
is  the  portion  of  slaves,  anil  that  faith  in  portents, 
the  most  fatal  substitute  for  benevolence  in  the 
imaginations  of  men,  which,  arising  from  the 
enslaved  communities  of  the  East,  then  first  began 
to  overwhelm  the  western  nations  in  its  stream. 
Were  these  the  kind  of  meu  whose  disapprobation 
the  wise  and  lofty-minded  Lucretius  should  have 
regarded  with  salutary  awe  I  The  latest  and  per- 
haps the  meanest  of  those  who  follow  in  his  foot- 
steps, would  disdidn  to  hold  life  on  such  condi- 
tions. 

The  Poem  now  presented  to  the  Public  occupied 
little  more  than  six  months  in  the  composition. 
That  period  has  been  devoted  to  the  task  with  un- 
remitting ardour  and  enthusiasm.  I  have  exercised 
a  watchful  and  earnest  criticism  on  my  work  as  it 
grew  under  my  hands.  I  would  willingly  have 
sent  it  forth  to  the  world  with  that  perfection  which 
long  labour  and  revision  is  said  to  bestow.  But  I 
found  that  if  I  should  gain  something  in  exactness 
by  this  method,  I  might  lose  much  of  the  newness 
and  energy  of  imagery  and  language  as  it  flowed 


fresh  from  my  mind.  And  although  the  mere 
composition  occupied  no  more  than  six  months,  the 
thoughts  thus  arranged  were  slowly  gathered  in  as 
many  years. 

I  trust  that  the  reader  will  carefully  distinguish 
between  those  opinions  which  have  a  dramatic  pro- 
priety in  reference  to  the  characters  which  they  arc 
designed  to  elucidate,  and  such  as  are  properly  my 
own*  The  erroneous  and  degrading  idea  which 
men  have  conceived  of  a  Supreme  Being,  for  in- 
stance, is  spoken  against,  but  not  the  Supreme  Be- 
mg  itself.  The  belief  which  some  superstitious 
persons  whom  I  have  brought  upon  the  stage  enter- 
tain of  the  Deity,  as  injurious  to  the  character  of 
his  benevclonce,  is  widely  dillerent  from  my  own. 
In  recommending  also  a  great  and  important  change 
in  the  spirit  which  animates  the  social  institutions 
of  mankind,  I  have  avoided  all  flattery  to  those 
violent  and  malignant  passions  of  our  nature,  which 
are  ever  on  the  watch  to  mingle  with  and  to  alloy 
the  most  beneficial  innovations.  There  is  no  quarter 
given  to  Revenge,  or  Envy,  or  Prejudice.  Love  is 
celebrated  every  where  as  the  sole  law  which 
should  govern  the  moral  world. 


DEDICATION. 


There  is  no  danger  to  a  Man,  that  Knows 
What  life  and  death  is  :  there's  not  any  law 
Exceeds  his  knowledge  :  neither  is  it  lawful 
That  he  should  stoop  to  any  other  law. 

Chapman. 


TO  MARY ■ 

!• 

So  now  my  summer-task  is  ended,  Mary, 
And  I  return  to  thee,  mine  own  heart's  home ; 
As  to  his  Queen  some  victor  Knight  of  Faery, 
Earning  bright  spoils  for  her  enchanted  dome ; 
Nor  thou  disdain,  that  ere  my  fame  become 
A  star  among  the  stars  of  mortal  night, 
If  it  indeed  may  cleave  its  natal  gloom, 
Its  doubtful  promise  thus  I  would  unite 
With  thy  beloved  name,  thou  Child  of  love  and  hght. 

II. 

The  toil  which  stole  from  thee  so  many  an  hour 
Is  ended — and  the  fruit  is  at  thy  feet ! 
No  longer  where  the  woods  to  fi-ame  a  bower 
With  interlaced  branches  mix  and  meet. 
Or  where  with  sound  like  many  voices  sweet, 
Water-falls  leap  among  wild  islands  green. 
Which  framed  for  my  lone  boat  a  lone  retreat 
Of  moss-grown  trees  and  weeds,  shall  I  be  seen : 
But  beside  thee,  where  still  mv  heart  has  ever  been. 


Thoughts  of  great  deeds  were  mine,  dear  Friend, 
when  first  rpass. 

The  clouds  which  wrap  this  world  fi-om  youtli  did 
I  do  remember  well  the  hour  which  burst 
My  spirit's  sleep :  a  fresh  May-dawn  it  was, 


When  I  walked  forth  upon  the  glittering  grass, 
And  wept,  I  knew  not  why :  utitil  there  rose 
From  the  near  school-room,  voices,  that,  alas ! 
Were  but  one  echo  from  a  world  of  woes — 
The  harsh  and  grating  strife  of  tyrants  and  of  foes. 

ly. 

And  then  I  clasped  my  hands  and  looked  around. 
But  none  was  near  to  mock  my  streaming  eyes, 
Which  poured  their  warm  drops  on  the  sunny 

ground — ■ 
So  without  shame,  I  spake  : — "  I  will  he  wise. 
And  just,  and  free,  and  mild,  if  in  me  lies 
Such  power,  for  I  grow  weary  to  behold 
The  selfish  and  the  strong  still  t^^Tannise 
Without  reproach  or  check."     I  then  controlled 

My  tears,  my  heart  grew  calm,  and  I  was  meek 
atid  bold. 

y. 
And  from  that  hour  did  I  with  earnest  thought 
Heap  knowledge  from  forbidden  mines  of  lore. 
Yet  nothing  that  my  tyrants  knew  or  taught 
I  cared  to  learn,  but  from  that  secret  store 
Wrought  linked  armour  for  my  soul,  before 
It  might  walk  forth  to  war  among  mankind : 
Thus  power  and  hope  were  strengthened  more  and 
Within  me,  till  there  came  upon  my  mind  [more 

A  sense  of  lonehncss,  a  thirst  with  which  I  pined, 
yr. 
Alas,  that  love  should  be  a  blight  and  snare 
To  those  who  seek  all  sympathies  in  one  ! — 
Such  once  I  sought  in  vain ;  then  black  despair, 
The  shadow  of  a  starless  night,  was  thrown 
Over  the  world  in  which  I  moved  alone : — 
Yet  never  found  I  one  not  false  to  me. 
Hard  hearts,  and  cold,  like  weights  of  icy  stone 
Which  crushed  and  withered  mine,  that  could  not  be 

Aught  but  a  lifeless  clog,  until  re\-ived  by  thee. 


72 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


Thou  Fricml,  wliose  presence  on  my  wintry  heart  | 
Fell,  like  hrijrht  tSprinij  upon  some  herblcss  plain, 
IIow  beautiful  and  eahn  and  free  thou  wert 
In  thy  younp  wisdom,  when  the  mortal  chain 
Of  Custom  thou  didst  hurst  and  rend  in  twain, 
And  walked  as  free  as  liirht  the  clouds  among, 
Which  many  an  envious  shivc  t  hen  breathed  in  vain 
From  his  dim  dungeon,  and  my  spirit  sprung 
To  meet  thee  from  the  woes  wliich  had  begirt  it  long. 

Till. 

No  more  alone  through  the  world's  wilderness, 
Although  I  trod  the  paths  of  high  intent, 
I  journeyed  now  :  no  more  companionless, 
Where  solitude  is  like  despair,  I  went. — 
There  is  the  wisdom  of  a  stem  content 
When  Poverty  can  blight  the  just  and  good, 
When  Infamy  dares  mock  tlie  innocent,  • 

.\nd  cherished  friends  turn  with  the  multitude 
To  trample :  this   was   ours,   and  we    unshtdien 
stood ! 

IX. 

Now  has  descended  a  serener  hour, 

And  with  inconstant  fortune,  friends  return  ; 

Though  suffering  leaves  the  knowledge  and  the 

power 
W^hich  says : — Let  scorn  be  not  repaid  with  scom. 
And  from  thy  side  two  gentle  babes  are  bom 
To  fill  our  home  with  smiles,  and  thus  are  we 
Most  fortunate  beneath  life's  beaming  morn  : 
And  these  delights,  and  thou,  have  been  to  me 
The  parents  of  the  Song  I  consecrate  to  thee. 

X. 

Is  it,  that  now  my  inexperienced  fingers 
But  strike  the  prelude  of  a  loftier  strain? 
Or,  must  the  lyre  on  which  my  spirit  lingers 
Soon  pause  ui  silence,  ne'er  to  sound  again, 
Though  it  might  shake  the  Anarch  Custom's  reign, 
And  charin  the  minds  of  men  to  Truth's  own  sway, 
Holier  than  was  Amphion's?   I  would  fain 
Reply  in  hope — but  I  am  worn  away. 

And  Death  and  Love  arc  yet  contending  for  their 
prey. 

xr. 
And  what  art  thoul   I  know,  but  dare  not  speak: 
Time  may  interpret  to  his  silent  years. 
Yet  in  the  paleness  of  thy  thoughtfiil  check, 
And  in  the  liglit  thine  ample  forehead  wears. 
And  in  thy  sweetest  smiles,  and  in  thy  tears. 
And  in  thy  gentle  speech,  a  prophecy 
Is  whispered,  to  subdue  my  fondest  fears: 
And  through  thine  eyes,  even  in  thy  soul  I  see 

A  lamp  of  vestal  fire  burning  internally. 

XII. 

They  say  that  thou  wert  lovely  from  thy  birth. 
Of  glorious  parents  thou  aspiring  Child: 
I  wonder  not — for  One  then  left  this  earth 
Whose  life  was  like  a  setting  planet  mild, 
Which  clothed  tliee  in  the  radiance  undcfiled 
Of  its  dr{)arting  glory  ;  still  her  fame 
Shines  on  thee,  through  the  tempests  dark  and  wild 
Which  shake  these  latter  days ;  and  thou  canstclaim 
The  shelter,  from  thy  Sire,  of  an  immortal  name. 


One  voice  came  forth  from  many  a  mighty  spiiit, 
Which  was  the  echo  of  three  thousand  years ; 
And  the  tumultuous  world  stood  mute  to  hear  it, 
As  some  lone  'man  who  in  a  desert  hears 
The  music  of  his  home  :  unwonted  fears 
Fell  on  the  pale  oppressors  of  our  race. 
And  Faith,  and  Custom,  and  low-thouffhted  cares. 
Like  thunder-stricken  dragons,  for  a  space  [place. 
Left  the  torn  human  heart,  their  food  and  dwelling- 

XIV. 

Truth's  deathless  voice  pauses  among  mankind ! 
If  there  must  be  no  response  to  my  cr}- — 
If  men  must  rise  and  stamp  with  fur)'  blind 
On  his  pure  name  who  loves  them, — thou  and  I, 
Sweet  Friend  !  can  look  from  our  tranquillity 
liikc  lamps  into  the  world's  tempestuous  night, — 
Two  tranquil  stars,  while  clouds  are  passing  by 
W^hich  wrap  them  fi-om  the  foundering  seaman's 
sight,  [light. 

That  burn  from  year  to  year  with  unextinguished 

CANTO  L 
I. 

WnEx  the  last  hope  of  trampled  France  had  failed 
Like  a  brief  dream  of  unremaining  glory, 
From  visions  of  despair  I  rose,  and  scaled 
The  peak  of  an  aerial  promontory,  [hoary  ; 

Whose  caverncd  base  with  the  vexed  surge  was 
And  saw  the  golden  dawn  break  forth,  and  waken 
Each  cloud,  and  every  wave : — ^l)ut  transitoiy 
The  calm  :  for  sudden,  the  firm  earth  was  shaken. 

As  if  by  the  last  wreck  it5  fiame  were  overtaken. 
II. 
So  as  I  stood,  one  blast  of  muttering  tluindcr 
Burst  in. far  peals  along  the  waveless  deep, 
When,  gathering  fast,  around,  above,  and  under. 
Long  trains  of  tremulous  mist  began  to  creep. 
Until  their  complicating  fines  tlid  steep 
The  orient  sun  in  shadow : — not  a  sounJ 
W^as  heard;  one  hon-ible  repose  did  keep 
The  forests  and  the  floods,  and  all  around 

Darkness  more  dread  than  night  was  poured  upon 
the  ground. 

III. 
Hark !  'tis  the  rushing  of  a  wind  that  sweeps 
Earth  and  the  ocean.     See  !  the  lightnings  ya\vn 
Deluging  Heaven  with  fire,  and  the  lashed  deeps 
Glitter  and  boil  beneath  :  it  ragos  on,       [thrown. 
One  mighty  stream,  whirlwiixd   and  waves   up- 
Lightning,  and  hail,  and  darkness  eddying  by. 
There  is  a  pause — the  sea-birds,  that  were  gone 
Into  iheir  caves  to  shriek,  come  forth  to  spy 

Whatcalm  has  fall'n  on  earth,  what  light  is  in  the  sky. 

IV. 

For,  where  the  irresistible  storm  had  cloven 
That  fearful  darkness,  the  l>Iue  sky  was  seen 
Fretted  with  many  a  fair  cloud  interwoven 
Most  delicately,  and  the  ocean  green, 
Beneath  that  o])oniug  spot  of  blue  serene. 
Quivered  like  burning  emerald  :  calm  was  spread 
On  all  below;  but  far  on  high,  between 
E;irth  and  the  upper  air,  the  vast  clouds  fled.  [shed. 
Countless  and  swift  as  leaves  on  autumn's  tempest 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


73 


For  ever  as  tlio  war  became  more  fierce 
Between  the  uhirlvviiids  and  the  rack  on  high, 
That  spot  grew  more  serene  ;  bkin  hglit  did  pierce 
The  woof  of  those  white  clouds,  which  seemed  to  Ue 
Far,  deep,  and  motionless ;  while  tlirough  the  sky 
The  pallid  semicircle  of  the  moon 
Past  on,  in  slow  and  mo^ing  majesly  ; 
Its  upper  horn  arrayed  in  mists,  which  soon 
But  slowly  fled,  like  dew  beneath  the  beams  of  noon. 

VI. 

I  could  not  choose  but  gaze ;  a  fascination  [drew 
Dwelt  in  that  moon,  and  sky,  and  clouds,  which 
My  fancy  tliither,  and  in  expectation 
Of  what  I  knew  not,  I  remained: — the  hue 
Of  the  white  moon,  amid  that  heaven  so  blue, 
Suddenly  stained  with  shadow  did  appear ; 
A  speck,  a  cloud,  a  shape,  approaching  grew, 
Like  a  great  ship  in  the  sun's  sinking  sphere 

Beheld  alar  at  sea,  and  swift  it  came  ancar — 
vri. 
Even  like  a  hark,  which  from  a  chasm  of  moun- 
Dark,  vast,  and  overhanging,  on  a  river      [tains, 
Which  there  collects  the  strength  of  all  its  foun- 
tains, [quiver. 
Comes  forth,  whilst  with  the  speed  its  frame  doth 
Sails,  oars,  and  stream,  tending  to  one  endeavour; 
So,  from  that  chasm  of  light  a  wiTiged  Form 
On  all  the  winds  of  heaven  approaching  ever 
Floated,  dilating  as  it  came  :  the  storm 

Pursued  it  with  fierce  blasts,  and  lightnings  swift 
and  warm. 

VIII. 

A  course  precipitous,  of  dizzy  speed, 
Suspending   thought  and   breath ;    a  mons-trous 
For  in  the  air  do  I  behold  indeed  [sight ! 

An  Eagle  and  a  Serpent  wreathed  in  fight ; — • 
And  now,  relaxing  its  impetuous  flight 

.Before  the  aerial  rock  on  which  I  stood. 
The  Eagle,  hovering,  wheeled  to  left  and  right. 
And  hung  with  lingering  wings  over  the  flood, 

And  startled  with  its  yells  the  wide  air's  solitude. 

IX. 

A  shaft  of  light  upon  its  wings  descended, 
And  every  golden  feather  gleamed  therein — 
Feather  and  scale  inextricably  blended. 
The  Serpent's  mailed  and  many-coloured  skin 
Shone  through  tlie  plumes ;  its  coils  were  twined 

within 
By  many  a  swollen  and  knotted  fold,  and  high 
And  far,  the  neck  receding  lithe  and  thin. 
Sustained  a  crested  head,  which  warily 
Shifted  and  glanced  before  the  Eagle's  steadfast  eye. 

X. 

Around,  around,  in  ceaseless  circles  wheeling 
With  clang  of  wings  and  scream,  the  eagle  sailed 
Incessantly — sometimes  on  high  concealing 
Its  lessening  orbs,  sometimes  aus  if  it  failed. 
Drooped  through  the  air ;  and  still  it  shrieked  and 

wailed. 
And  casting  hack  its  eager  head,  witli  beak 
And  talon  unremittingly  assailed 
The  wreathed  Serpent,  who  did  ever  seek 
Upon  his  enemy's  heart  a  mortal  wound  to  wreak. 

10 


What  life,  what  power,  was  kindled  and  arose 
Witliin  the  sphere  of  that  appalling  fray  ! 
For,  from  the  encounter  of  those  wond'rous  foes, 
A  vapour  like  the  sea's  suspended  spray 
Hung  gathered:  in  the  void  air,  faraway,    [leap. 
Floated  the   shattered  plumes  ;  bright   scales  did 
Where'er  the  Eagle's  talons  made  their  way. 
Like  sparks  into  the  darkness  ; — as  they  sweep. 
Blood  stains  the  snowy  foam  of  the  tumultuous  deep. 

XII. 

Swift  chances  in  that  combat — many  a  check. 
And  many  a  change,  a  dark  and  wild  turmoil; 
Sometimes  the  Snake  around  his  enemy's  neck 
Locked  in  stiff  rings  his  admantine  coil, 
Until  the  Eagle,  faint  with  pain  and  toil. 
Remitted  his  strong  flight,  and  near  the  sea 
Languidly  fluttered,  hopeless  so  to  foil 
His  adversary,  who  then  reared  on  high 
His  red  and  burning  cre^t,  radiant  with  victory. 

XIII. 

Then  on  the  white  edge  of  the  bursting  surge. 
Where  they  had  sunk  together,  would  the  Snake 
Relax  his  suffocating  grasp,  and  scourge 
The  wind  with  his  wild  writhings  ;  for  to  break 
That  chain  of  torment,  the  vast  bird  would  shake 
The  strength  of  his  unconquerable  wings 
As  in  despair,  and  with  his  sinewy  neck 
Dissolve  in  sudden  shock  those  linked  rings 
Then  soar — as  swift   as  smoke   from  a    volcano 
springs. 

XIV 

Wile   baffled   wile,    and    strength    encountered 

strength, 
Thus  long,  but  unprcvailing  : — the  event 
Of  that  portentous  fight  appeared  at  length  : 
Until  the  lamp  of  day  was  almost  spent 
It  had  endured,  when  lifeless,  stark,  and  rent, 
Hung  high  that  mighty  Serpent,  and  at  last 
Fell  to  the  sea,  while  o'er  the  continent. 
With  clang  of  wings  and  scream  the  Eagle  past, 
Heavily  home  away  on  the  exhausted  blast. 

XV. 

And  with  it  fled  the  tempest,  so  that  ocean 
And  earth    and   sky  shone  through   the   atmo- 
sphere— 
Only,  it  was  strange  to  see  the  red  commotion 
Of  waves  like  mountains  o'er  the  sinking  sphere 
Of  sunset  sweep,  and  their  fierce  roar  to  hear 
Amid  the  calm  :  down  the  steep  path  I  wound 
To  the  sea-shore — the  evening  was  most  clear 
And  beautiful,  and  there  the  sea  I  found 
Calm    as  a  cradled  cliild    in   dreamless  slumber 
bound. 

XVI. 

There  was  a  Woman,  beautiful  as  morning, 
Sitting  beneath  the  rocks  upon  the  sand 
Of  the  wa-^te  sea — fair  as  one  flower  adorning 
An  icy  wilderness — each  delicate  hand 
Lay  crossed  upon  her  bosom,  and  the  band 
Of  her  dark  hair  had  fallen,  and  so  she  sate 
Looking  upon  the  waves ;  on  the  bare  strand 
Upon  the  sea-mark  a  small  boat  did  wait. 
Fair  as  herself  like  Love  by  Hope  left  desolate. 
G 


7-4 


THE    REVOLT    OF  ISLAM. 


It  sccmcil  that  this  fair  Shape  had  looked  upon 
'i'liat  unimaginable  fight,  and  now 
That  her  sweet  eyes  were  weary  of  the  sun. 
As  brightly  it  illustrated  her  wo  ; 
For  in  the  ti  ars  whieii  silently  to  flow 
Paused  not.  its  lustre  hunc; :  she  watcMng  aye 
The  foam-wreaths  which  the  faint  tide  wove  below 
Upon  the  spangled  sands,  groaned  heavily. 

And  after  every  groan  looked  up  over  the  sea. 
xviir. 
And  when  she  saw  the  wounded  Serpent  make 
His  paths  between  the  waves,  her  lips  grew  pale, 
Parted,  and  quivered  ;  the  tears  ceased  to  break 
From  her  immovable  eyes  ;  no  voice  of  wail 
Escaped  her ;  but  she  rose,  and  on  the  gale 
Loosening  her  star-bright  robe  and  shadowy  hair, 
Poured  forth  her  voice  ;  the  caverns  of  the  vale 
That  opened  to  the  ocean,  caught  it  there. 

And  filled  with  silver  sounds  the  overflowing  air. 


She  spake  in  language  whose  strange  melody 
Might  not  belong  to  earth.     I  heard,  alone, 
What  made  its  music  more  melodious  be, 
The  pity  and  the  love  of  every  tone  :       [known. 
But   to   the    Snake    those   accents   sweet   were 
His  native  tongue  and  hers :  nor  did  he  beat 
The  hoar  spray  idly  then,  but  windmg  on     [meet 
Through   the  green  shadows  of  the  waves  that 
Near  to  the  shore,  did  pause  beside  her   snowy 
feet. 

XX. 

Then  on  the  sands  the  Woman  sate  again. 
And  wept  and  clasped  her  hands,  and  all  between, 
Renewed  the  unintelligible  strain 
Of  her  melodious  voice  and  eloquent  mien ; 
And  she  unveiled  her  bosom,  and  the  green 
And  glancing  shadows  of  the  sea  did  play 
O'er  its  mannorcal  depth  : — one  moment  seen, 
For  ere  the  next,  the  Serpent  did  obey 
Her  voice,  and,  coiled  in  rest,  in  her  embrace  it  lay. 

XXI. 

Then  she  arose,  and  smiled  on  me  with  eyes 
Serene  yet  sorrowing,  like  that  planet  fair, 
While  yet  the  d;iyli2;lit  lingcreth  in  the  skies 
Which  cleaves  with  arrowy  beams  the  dark-red 

air. 
And  saiil :  To  grieve  is  wise,  but  the  despair 
Was  weak  and  vain  which  led  thee  here  from  sleep : 
This  shalt  thou  know,  and  more,  if  thou  dost  dare 
With  me  and  with  this  Serpent,  o'er  the  deep, 
A  voyage  divine  and  strange,  companionship  to  keep. 

XXII. 

Her  voice  was  like  the  wildest,  saddest  tone. 
Yet  sweet,  of  some  loved  voice  heard  long  ago. 
I  we{)t.     Shall  this  fair  woman  all  alone 
Over  the  sea  with  that  fierce  Serpent  go  1 
His  head  is  in  her  heart,  and  who  can  know 
How  soon  he  may  devour  liis  feeble  prey  1 — 
Such  were  my  thoughts,  when  the  tide'gan  to  flow ; 
And  that  strange  boat,  like  the  moon's  shade  did 
sway 
Amid  reflected  stars  that  in  the  waters  lay. 


XXIII 

A  boat  of  rare  device,  which  had  no  sail 
But  its  own  curved  j)row  of  ihin  moonstone, 
Wrought  like  a  web  of  texture  fine  and  frail, 
To  catch  those  gentlest  winds  which  arc  not  known 
To  breathe,  but  by  the  steady  speed  alone 
With  which  it  cleaves  the  sparkling  sea  ;  and  now 
We  are  embarked,  the  mountains  hang  and  frown 
Over  the  starrj'  deep  that  gleams  below 
A  vast  and  dim  expanse,  as  o'er  the  waves  we  go. 

XXIV. 

And  as  we  sailed,  a  strange  and  awfiil  tale 
That  Woman  told,  like  such  mysterious  dream 
As  makesthe  slumbercr's  check  with  wonder  pale! 
'Twas  midnight  and  around  a  shoreless  stream, 
Wide  ocean  rolled,  when  that  majestic  theme 
Shrined  in  her  heart  found  utterance  and  she  bent 
Her  looks  on  mine  ;  those  eyes  a  kinding  beam 
Of  love  divine  into  my  spirit  sent. 
And,  ere  her  lips  could  move,  made  the  air  eloquent. 

XXT. 

Speak  not  to  me,  but  hear  !  much  shalt  thou  learn. 
Much  must  remain  unthought,  and  more  untold, 
In  the  dark  Future's  ever-flowing  urn: 
Know  then,  that  from  the  depth  of  ages  old 
Two  Powci-s  o'er  mortal  things  dominion  hold, 
Ruling  the  world  with  a  divided  lot. 
Immortal,  all-pervading,  manifold. 
Twin  Genii,  equal  Gods — when  life  and  thought 
Sprang  forth,  they  burst  the  womb  of  inessential 
Nought. 

XXVI. 

The  earliest  dweller  of  the  world  alone 
Stood  on  the  verge  of  chaos :  Lo  !  afar 
O'er  the  wide  wild  abyss  two  meteors  shone,  • 
Sprung  from  the  depth  of  its  tempestuous  jar : 
A  blood-red  Comet  and  the  Morning  Star 
Mingling  their  beams  in  combat — as  he  stood 
All  thoughts  within  his  mind  waged  mutual  war. 
In  di-eadful  sympathy — when  to  the  flood  [blood. 
That  fair  star  fell,  he  turned  and  shed  his  brother's 

XXVII. 

Thus  evil  triumphed,  and  the  Spirit  of  evil. 

One  Power  of  many  shapes  which  none   may 

know. 
One  Shape  of  many  names;  the  fiend  did  revel 
In  victory,  reigning  o'er  a  world  of  wo, 
For  the  new  race  of  man  went  to  and  fro, 
Famished  and  homeless,  loathed  and  loathing,  wild. 
And  hating  good — for  his  itnmortal  foe. 
He  changed  from  starry  shape,  beauteous  and  mild. 
To  a  dire  Snake,  with  man  and  beast  unreconciled. 

XXVIIT. 

The  darkness  lingering  o'er  the  dawn  of  things. 
Was  Evil's  breath  and  life;  this  made  him  strong 
To  soar  aloft  with  overshadowing  wings; 
And  the  great  Spirit  of  Good  did  creep  among 
The  nations  of  mankind,  and  every  tongue 
Cursed,  and  l)lus])lieincd  him  as  he  ]>ast;  for  none 
Knew  good  from  evil.tho\igh  tlieir  names  were  hung 
In  mockery  o'er  the  fane  where  many  a  groan. 
As    King,  and    Lord,  and   God,    the    conquering 
Fiend  did  own. 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


75 


Tlio  ficml,  whoso  name  was  I^cc^ion ;  Death,  Dcray , 
Earthquakp  and  BUi^ht,  and  Want,  and  Madncs's 
Winged  and  wan  diseases,  an  an-ay  [pale, 

Numerous  as  leaves  that  strew  the  autumnal  gale ; 
Poison,  a  snake  in  flowers,  hetieath  the  veil 
Of  food  and  mirth,  hiding  his  mortal  head; 
And  without  whom  all  these  might  nouglit  avail, 
Fi\ir,  Hatred,  Faith,  and  Tyranny,  who  spread 
Those  suhtle  nets  vi^hich  snare  the  living  and  the  dead. 

XXX. 

His  spirit  is  their  power,  and  they  his  slaves 
In  air,  and  liglit,  and  thought,  and  language  dwell ; 
And  keep  their  state  from  palaces  to  graves, 
In  all  rosorts  of  men — invisible, 
But  when,  in  ebon  mirror.  Nightmare  fell, 
To  tyrant  or  impostor  bids  them  rise,  [hell, 

Black  winged   demon  forms — whom   from  the 
His  reign  and  dwelling  beneath  nether  skies, 
He  loosens  to  their  dark  and  blasting  ministries. 

XXXI. 

In  the  world's  youth  his  empire  was  as  firm 
As  its  foundations — soon  the  Spirit  of  Good, 
Though  in  the  likeness  of  a  loathsome  worm, 
Sprang  from  the  billows  of  the  formless  flood. 
Which  shrank  and  fled ;  and  with  that  fiend  of  blood 
Renewed   the  doubtful  war — thrones    then  first 

shook, 
And  earth's  immense  and  trampled  multitude, 
In  hope  on  their  own  powers  l>egan  to  look, 

And  Fear,  the  demon  pale,  his  sanguine   shrine 
forsook. 

xxxir. 
Then  Greece  arose,  and  to  its  bards  and  sages, 
In  dream,  the  golden-pinioned  Genii  came, 
Even  where  they  slept  amid  the  night  of  ages 
Steeping  their  hearts  in  the  divinest  flame 
Which  thy  breath  kindled,  Power  of  holiest  name  ! 
And  oft  in  cycles  since,  when  darkness  gave 
New  weapons  to  thy  foe,  their  sunlike  fame 
Upon  the  combat  shone — ^a  light  to  save,    [grave. 

Like  Paradise  spread  forth   beyond  the  shadowy 

XXXIII. 

Such  is  this  conflict — when  mankind  doth  strive 
With  its  oppressors  in  a  strife  of  blood. 
Or  when  free  thoughts,  like  lightnings,  are  alive ; 
And  in  each  bosom  of  the  multitude 
Justice  and  truth,  with  custom's  hydra  brood, 
Wage  silent  war ; — when  priests  and  kings  dissem- 
In  smiles  or  frowns  their  fierce  disqueitude,       [ble 
When  round  pure  hearts,  a  host  of  hopes  assemble, 
The  Snake  and  Eagle  meet — the  world's  founda- 
tions tremble ! 

xxxiy. 

Thou  hast  beheld  that  fight^ — when  to  thy  home 
Thou  dost  return,  steep  not  its  hearth  in  tears: 
Though  thou  may'st  hear  that  earth  is  now  become 
The  tyrant's  garbage,  which  to  his  compilers, 
The  vile  reward  of  their  dishonoured  years, 
He  w^ll  di\-iding  give. — The  victor  Fiend 
Omnipotent  of  yore,  now  quails,  and  fears 
His  triumph  dearly  won,  which  soon  will  lend 
An  impulse  swift  and  sure  to  liis  approaching  end. 


XXXV. 

List,  stranger,  list!  mine  is  a  human  form,  [now! 
I^ike  that  thou  wearest — touch  me — sliriiik  not 
My  hand  thou  feel'st  is  not  a  ghost's,  but  warm, 
With  human  blood. — 'Twas  many  years  ago, 
Since  first  my  thirsting  soul  asj)ircd  to  know 
The  secrets  of  this  wondrous  world,  when  deep 
My  heart  was  pierced  with  sympathy  for  wo,  [keep, 
W^hich  could  not  be  mine  own — and  thought  did 
In  dream,  unnatural  watch  beside  an  infant's  sleep. 

XXXVI. 

Wo  could  not  be  mine  own,  since  far  from  men 
I  dwelt,  a  free  and  happy  orj)han  child. 
By  the  sea-shore,  in  a  deej)  mountain  glen ; 
And  near  the  waves,  and  through  the  forests  wild, 
I  roamed,  to  storm  and  darkness  reconciled, 
For  I  was  calm  while  tempest  shook  the  sky : 
But,  when  the  breathless  heavens  in  beautj'  smiled, 
I  wept  sweet  tears,  yet  too  tumultuously 
For  peace,  and  clasped  my  hands  aloft  in  ecstacy. 

XXXVII. 

These  were  forebodings  of  my  fate. — Before 
A  woman's  heart  beat  in  my  virgin  breast, 
It  had  been  nurtured  in  divinest  lore : 
A  dying  poet  gave  me  books,  and  blest 
With  wild  but  holy  talk  the  sweet  unrest 
In  which  I  watched  him  as  he  died  away — ' 
A  youth  ■with  hoary  hair — a  fleeting  guest 
Of  our  lone  mountains — and  tliis  lore  did  sway 

My  spirit  like  a  storm,  contending  there  alway. 
XXXVIII. 
Thus  the  dark  tale  which  history  doth  unfold, 
I  knew,  but  not,  methinks,  as  others  know. 
For  they  weep  not ;  and  Wisdom  had  unrolled 
The  clouds  which  hide  the  gulf  of  mortal  wo : 
To  few  can  she  that  warning  vision  show, 
For  I  loved  all  things  with  intense  devotion : 
So  that  when  hope's  deep  source  in  fullest  flow, 
Like  earthquake  did  uplit\  the  stagnant  ocean 

Of  human  thoughts — mine  shook  beneath  the  wide 
emotion. 

XXXIX. 

When  first  the  living  blood  through  all  these  veins 
Kmdled  a  tliought  in  sense,  great  France  sprang 

forth 
And  seized,  as  if  to  break,  the  ponderous  chains 
Which  bind  in  wo  the  nations  of  the  earth. 
I  saw,  and  st;u-ted  from  my  cottage  hearth ; 
And  to  the  clouds  and  waves  in  tameless  gladness 
Shrieked,  till  they  caught  immeasurable  mirth — 
And  laughed  in  .light  and   music:  soon,  sweet 

madness  [sadness. 

Was  poured  upon  my  heart,  a  soft  and  thrilling 

XL. 

Deep  s]um])er  fell  on  me; — my  dreams  were  fire. 
Soft  and  dcliglitfid  thoughts  did  rest  and  hover 
liike  shadows  o'er  my  brain ;  and  strange  desire. 
The  tempest  of  a  passion,  raging  over 
My  tranquil  soul,  its  depths  with  light  did  cover. 
Which  past ;  and  calm,  and  darkness,  sweeter  far 
Came — then  I  loved  ;  but  not  a  human  lover  ! 
For  when  I  rose  from  sleep,  the  Morning  Star 
Shone  through  the  woodbine  wreaths  which  round 
my  casement  w^ere. 


76 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


'Twas  like  an  eye  which  seemed  to  smile  on  me. 
I  watched  till,  by  the  sun  made  pule,  it  sank 
Under  the  billows  of  the  heaving  sea ; 
But  from  its  beams  deej)  love  my  siiirit  drank, 
And  to  my  brain  the  boundless  world  now  shrank 
Into  one  thought — one  image — yea,  for  ever ! 
Even  like  the  day's  spring,  poured  on  vapours  dank. 
The  beams  of  that  one  star  did  shoot  and  quiver 
Through    my  benighted    mind — and  were  extin- 
guish never. 

XLII. 

The  day  past  thus :  at  night,  methought  in  dream 
A  shape  of  speechless  beauty  did  ajjpcar ; 
It  stood  like  light  on  a  careering  stream 
Of  golden  clouds  which  shook  the  atmosphere  ; 
A  winged  youth,  his  radiant  brow  did  wear 
The  Morning  Star :  a  wild  dissolving  bliss 
Over  my  frame  he  breathed,  approaching  near. 
And  bent  his  eyes  of  kindling  tenderness     [kiss. 
Near  niiiie,  and  on  my  lips  impressed  a  lingering 

XLIII. 

And  said  :  A  Spirit  loves  thee,  mortal  maiden. 
How  wilt  thou  prove  thy  worth  I     Then  joy  and 
Together  fled ;  my  soul  was  deeply  laden,  [sleep 
And  to  the  shore  I  went  to  muse  and  weep ; 
But  as  I  moved  over  my  heart  did  creep 
A  joy  less  soft,  but  more  profound  and  strong 
Than  my  sweet  dream  ;  and  it  forbade  to  keep 
The  path  of  the  sea-shore :  that  Spirit's  tongue 
Seemed  whispering  in  my  heart,  and  bore  my  steps 
along. 

XLIV. 

How,  to  that  vast  and  peopled  city  led, 
Which  was  a  field  of  holy  warfare  then, 
I  walked  among  the  dying  and  the  dead, 
And  shared  in  fearless  deeds  with  evil  men, 
Calm  as  an  angel  in  the  dragon's  den — 
How  I  braved  death  for  liberty  and  truth,    [when 
And  spurned  at  peace,  and  power,  and  fame  ;  and 
Those  hopes  had  lost  the  gloiy  of  their  youth. 
How  sadly  I  returned — might  move   the  hearer's 
ruth: 

XLV. 

"Warm  tears  throng  fust !  the  tale  may  not  be  said — 
Know  then,  tluit  when  this  grief  had  been  subdued, 
I  was  not  left,  like  others,  cold  and  dead ; 
The  Sj)irit  whom  I  loved  in  solitude 
Sustained  his  child :  the  tempest-shaken  wood. 
The  waves,  the  fountains,  and  the  hush  of  night — 
These  were  his  voice,  and  well  I  understood 
His  smile  divine  when  the  calm  sea  was  bright 
With  silent  stars,  and  Heaven  was  breathless  with 
deliglit. 

XLVI. 

In  lonely  glens,  amid  the  roar  of  rivers, 
When  the  dim  nights  were  moonless,  have  I  known 
.Toys  which  no  tongue  can  tell ;  my  pale  lip  quivers 
When  tiiouglit revisits  them: — know  thou  alone, 
That  after  many  wondrous  years  were  flown, 
I  was  awakened  by  a  shriek  of  wo ; 
And  over  mc  a  mystic  robe  was  thrown, 
By  viewless  hands,  and  a  bright  star  did  glow 
Before  my  steps — the  Snake  then  met  liis  mortal  foe. 


XLVII. 

Thou  fear'st  not  then  the  Serpent  on  thy  heart  7 
Fear  it !  she  said  with  brief  and  passionate  cry, 
And  spake  no  more  :  that  silence  made  me  start — 
I  looked,  and  we  were  sailing  pleasantly, 
Swift  as  a  cloud  between  the  sea  and  sky, 
Beneath  the  rising  moon  seen  far  away ; 
Mountains  of  ice,  like  sapphire  piled  on  high 
Hemming  the  horizon  round,  in  silence  lay 
On  the  still  waters, — these  we  did  approach  alway. 

xLviir. 

And  swift  and  swifter  grew  the  vessel's  motion, 
So  that  a  dizzy  trance  fell  on  my  brain- 
Wild  music  woke  me  :  we  had  past  the  ocean 
Which  girds  the  pole,  Nature's  remotest  reign — 
And  we  glode  fast  o'er  a  pellucid  jilain 
Of  waters,  azure  with  the  noontide  day. 
Ethereal  mountains  shone  around — a  Fane 
Stood  in  the  midst,  girt  by  green  isles  which  lay 
On  the  blue  sunny  deep,  resplendent  far  away. 

XLIX. 

It  was  a  temple,  such  as  mortal  hand 
Has  never  built,  nor  ecstaey,  or  dream. 
Reared  in  the  cities  of  enchanted  land  : 
'Twas  likcst  Heaven,  ere  yet  day's  purple  streak 
Ebbs  o'er  the  western  forest,  while  the  gleam 
Of  the  unrisen  moon  among  the  clouds 
Is  gathering — when  with  many  a  golden  beam 
The  thronging  constellations  rush  in  crowds, 
Paving  with  fire  the  sky  and  the  marmoreal  floods. 

L. 

Like  what  may  be  conceived  of  this  vast  dome, 
\A'hen  from  the  depths  which  thought  can  seldom 
Genius  beholds  it  rise,  his  native  home,      [pierce 
Girt  by  the  deserts  of  the  Universe, 
Yet,  nor  in  painting's  light,  or  mightier  verse, 
Or  sculpture's  marble  language,  can  invest 
That  shiipe  to  mortal  sense — such  glooms  immerse 
That  inconnnunicablc  sight,  and  rest 
Upon  the  labouring  brain  and  over-burdened  breast. 

LI. 

Winding  among  the  lawny  islands  fair, 
Whose  bloomy  forests  starred  the  shadowy  deep, 
The  wingl("ss  boat  paused  where  an  ivory  stair 
Its  fret-work  in  the  crystal  sea  did  steep, 
Encircling  that  vast  Fane's  aerial  he;ip  : 
We  disembarked,  and  through  a  portal  wide 
We  passed — whose  roof  of  moonstone  carved,  did 
A  c-linnnering  o'er  the  forms  on  every  side,   [keep 
Sculptures  like  life  and  thought;  immovable,  deep- 
eyed. 

Lir. 
We  came  to  a  vast  hall,  whose  glorious  roof 
Was  diamond,  which  had  drunk  the  lightning's 

sheen 
In  darkness,  and  now  poured  it  through  the  woof 
Of  spell-inwoven  clouds  hung  there  to  screen 
Its  blinding  s])lendour — through  such  veil  was  seen 
That  work  of  subtlest  power,  divine  and  rare ; 
Orb  above  orb,  with  starry  shapes  between, 
And  horned  moons,  and  meteors  strange  and  fair, 
On  night^black  columns  poised — one  hollow  hemi- 
sphere ! 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


77 


Ten  thousand  columns  in  that  iiuivcring  light 
Distinct — lu'twocn  whose  shafts  wound  far  away 
The  long  and  labyrinthine  isles — more  bright 
With  their  own  radiance  than  the  Heaven  of  Day  ; 
And  on  the  jasper  walls  around,  there  lay 
Paintings,  the  poesy  of  mightiest  thought. 
Which  did  the  Spirit's  history  display  ; 
A  tale  of  passionate  change,  divinely  taught, 
Wliich,  in  their  winged  dance,  unconscious  Genii 
wrought. 

LIT. 

Beneath,  there  sate  on  many  a  sapphire  throne, 
The  great  who  had  departed  from  mankind, 
A  mighty  Senate;  some  whose  white  hair  shone 
Like  mountain  snow,  mild,  beautiful,  and  lilind. 
Some,  female  forms,  whose  gestures  beamed  with 

mind ; 

And  ardent  youths,  and  children  bright  and  fair ; 

And  some  had  lyres  whose  strings  were  intertwined 

With  pale  and  chnging  flames,  which  ever  there 

Waked  faint  yet  thrilling  sounds  that  pierced  the 

crystal  air. 

One  seat  was  vacant  in  the  midst,  a  throne, 
Reared  on  a  pyramid  like  sculptured  flame, 
Distinct  with  circling  steps  which  rested  on 
Their  own  deep  fire — soon  as  the  woman  came 
Into  that  hall,  she  shrieked  the  Spirit's  name 
And  fell ;  and  vanished  slowly  from  the  sight. 
Darkness  arose  from  her  dissolving  frame. 
Which  gathering,  filled  that  dome  of  woven  light, 
Blotting  its  sphered  stars  with  supernatural  night. 

XTI. 

Then  first  two  glittering  lights  were  seen  to  glide 
In  circles  on  the  amethystine  floor. 
Small  serpent  eyes  trailing  from  side  to  side, 
Like  meteors  on  a  river's  grassy  shore. 
They  round  each  other  rolled,  dilating  more 
And  more — then  rose,  commingling  intcVone, 
One  clear  and  mighty  planet  hanging  o'er 
A  cloud  of  deepest  shadow,  which  was  thrown 
Athwart  the  glowing  steps  and  the  cry  st;dline  throne. 

Lvir. 

The  cloud  which  rested  on  that  cone  of  flame 
Was  cloven ;  beneath  a  planet  sate  a  Form, 
Fairer  than  tongue  can  speak  or  though  t  may  frame. 
The  radiance  of  whose  limbs  rose-like  and  warm 
Flowed  forth,  and  did  with  softest  light  inform 
The  shadowy  dome,  the  sculptures,  and  the  state 
Of  those  assembled  shapes — with  clinging  charm 
Sinking  upon  their  hearts  and  mine — He  sate 
Majestic  yet  most  mild — calm,  yet  compassionate. 

Wonder  and  joy  a  passing  faintness  threw 
Over  my  brow — ^a  hand  supported  me, 
Wliosc  touch  was  magic  strength  :  an  eye  of  blue 
Looked  upon  mine,  like  moonlight,  soothingly ; 
And  a  voice  said — Thou  must  a  listener  be 
This  day — t^vo  mighty  spirits  now  return. 
Like  birds  of  calm,  from  the  world's  raging  sea, 
They  pour  fresh  light  from  Hope's  immortal  urn; 
A  tale  of  human  power — despair  not — list  and  learn ! 


I  looked,  and  lo!  one  stood  forth  idoquently. 
His  eyes  were  dark  and  deep,  and  the  clear  brow 
Which  shadowed  them  was  like  the  morning  sky, 
The  cloudless  Heaven  of  Spring,  when  in  their  flow 
Through  the  hright  air,  the  soft  winds  as  they  blow 
AV'ake  the  greeu  world — his  gestures  did  ol)ey 
The  oracular  miud  that  made  his  features  glow, 
And  where  his  curved  lips  half  open  lay 
Passion's  divinest  stream  had  made  impetuous  way. 

LX. 

Beneath  the'  darkness  of  his  outspread  hair 
He  stood  thus  beautiful:  but  there  was  One 
Who  sate  beside  him  like  his  shadow  there. 
And  held  his  hand — far  lovelier — she  was  known 
To  be  thus  fair,  by  the  few  lines  alone 
Which  through  her  floating   locks  and  gathered 
Glances  of  soul-dissolving  glorj^  shone : —     [cloak 
None  else  beheld  her  eyes — in  him  they  woke 
Memories  which  found  a  tongue,  as  thus  he  silence 
broke. 

CANTO  n. 

I. 

The  starlight  smile  of  children,  the  sweet  looks 
Of  women,  the  fair  breast  from  which  I  fed. 
The  murmur  of  the  unreposing  brooks. 
And  the  green  light  which,  shifting  overhead, 
Some  tangled  bower  of  vines  around  me  shed. 
The  shells  on  the  sea-sand,  and  the  wild  flowers, 
The  lamplight  through  the  rafters  chcerly  spread, 
And  on  the  twining  flax — in  life's  young  hours 
These  sights  and    sounds  did   nurse   my   sjnrit's 

folded  powers. 

II. 
In  Argolis  beside  the  echoing  sea. 
Such  impulses  within  my  mortal  firame 
Arose,  and  they  were  dear  to  memory. 
Like  tokens. of  the  dead: — but  others  came 
Soon,  in  another  shape :  the  wondrous  fame 
Of  the  past  world,  the  vital  words  and  deeds 
Of  minds  whom  neither  time  nor  change  can  tame, 
Traditions  dark  and  old,  whence  evil  creeds  [feeds. 
Start  forth,  and  whose  dim  shade  a  stream  of  poison 
III. 
I  heard,  as  all  have  heard,  the  various  story 
Of  human  fife,  and  wept  unwiUing  tears 
Feeble  historians  of  its  shame  and  glory, 
False  disputants  on  all  its  hopes  and  fears. 
Victims  who  worshipped  ruin, — chroniclers 
Of  daily  scorn,  and  slaves  who  loathed  their  state; 
Yet  flattering  power  had  given  its  ministers 
A  throne  of  judgment  in  the  grave — 'twas  fate. 
That  among  such  as  these  my  youth  should  seek  its 

mate. 

IT. 

The  land  in  which  I  lived,  by  a  fell  bane 
Was  withered  up.     Tyrants  dwelt  side  by  side, 
And  stabled  in  our  homes, — untilthc  chain 
Stifled  the  captive's  cry,  and  to  abide 
That  blasting  curse  men  had  no  shame — all  vied 
In  evil,  slave  and  despot;  fear  with  lust 
Strange  fellowship  through  mutual  hate  had  tied. 
Like  two  dark  serpents  tangled  in  the  dust,    [thrust. 
Which  on  the  paths  of  men  their  mingling  poison 
c'2 


78 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


Earth,  our  bright  home,  its  mountains  and  its 

waters, 
And  the  ethereal  shapes  which  are  suspended 
Over  its  prreen  expanse,  and  those  fair  daughters, 
The  clouds,  of  Sun  and  Ocean,  who  have  blended 
The  colours  of  the  air  since  first  extended 
It  cradled  the  young  world,  none  wandered  forth 
To  see  or  feel :  a  darkness  liad  descended 
On  evcrj-  heart :  the  liirht  wliich  shows  its  worth. 
Must  among  gcntlethoughtsand  fearless  take  itsbirth. 

VI. 

This  vital  world,  this  home  of  happy  spirits. 
Was  as  a  duiiffeon  to  niv  blasted  kind, 
All  that  despair  from  murdered  hope  inherits 
TJiey  sought,  and  in  their  helpless  misery  blind, 
A  deeper  prison  and  heavier  chains  did  find. 
And  stronger  tyrants: — a  dark  gulf  before. 
The  realm  of  a  stern  Ruler,  yawned  ;  behind, 
Terror  and  Time  conflicting  drove,  and  bore 
On  their  tempestuous   flood  the  shrieking  \vretch 
from  shore. 

TII. 

Out  of  that  Ocean's  wrecks  had  Guilt  and  Wo 
Framed  a  dark  dwelling  for  their  homeless  thought, 
And,  starting  at  the  ghosts  which  to  and  fi-o 
Glide  o'er  its  dim  and  gloomy  strand,  had  brought 
The  worship  thence  which  they  each  other  taught. 
Well  might  men  loathe  their  life,  well  might  they 

turn 
Even  to  the  ills  again  from  which  they  sought 
Such  refuge  after  death  ! — well  might  they  learn 
To  gaze  on  this  fair  world  with  hopeless  unconcern. 

vtii. 
For  they  all  pined  in  bondage  ;  body  and  soul, 
Tyrant  and  slave,  victim  and  torturer,  bent 
Before  one  Power,  to  which  supreme  control 
Over  their  will  by  their  own  weakness  lent, 
Made  all  its  many  names  omnipotent; 
All  symbols  of  things  evil,  all  divine  ; 
And  hymns  of  ])lood  or  mockery,  which  rent 
The  air  from  all  its  fanes,  did  intertwine    [shrine. 
Imposture's  impious  toils  round  each  discordant 

IX. 

I  heard,  as  all  have  heard,  life's  various  story. 
And  in  no  careless  heart  transcribed  the  tale ; 
But,  from  the  sneers  of  men  who  had  grown  hoary 
In  shame  and  scorn,  from  groans  of  crowds  made 
By  f  unine,  from  a  mother's  desolate  wail       [pale 
O'er  her  polluted  child,  from  innocent  blood 
Pourt'd  on  the  earth,  and  brows  anxious  and  pale 
With  the  heart's  warfare ;  did  I  gather  food 
To  feed  my  many  thoughts :   a  tameless  multitude. 

X. 

I  wandered  through  the  WTCcks  of  days  departed 
Far  by  the  desolated  sliore,  when  even 
O'er  the  still  sea  and  jagged  islets  darted 
The  light  of  moonrise ;  in  the  northern  Heaven, 
Among  the  clouds  near  the  horizon  driven. 
The  mountains  lay  beneath  one  planet  pale; 
Around  me  broken  toml>s  and  columns  riven 
Looked  vast  in  twilight,  and  the  sorrowing  gale 
Waked  in  those  ruins  gray  its  everlasting  wail ! 


I  knew  not  who  had  framed  these  wonders  then, 
Pvor  had  I  heard  the  story  of  thoir  deeds ; 
But  dwellings  of  a  race  of  mightier  men. 
And  monuments  of  less  ungentle  creeds 
Tell  their  own  tale  to  him  who  wisely  heeds 
The  language  which  they  speak  ;  and  now,  to  me 
The    moonlight    making    pale     the     blooming 

weeds. 
The  bright  stars  shining  in  the  breathless  sea, 
Interpreted  those  scrolls  of  mortal  mysterj'. 

XII. 

Such  man  lias  been,  and  such  may  yet  become  ! 
Ay,  wiser,  greater,  gentler,  even  than  they 
Who  on  the  fragments  of  yon  shattered  dome 
Have  stamped  the  sign  of  power — I  felt  the  sway 
Of  the  vast  stream  of  ages  bear  away 
My  floating  thoughts — my  heart  beat  loud  and 
Even  as  a  stonn  let  loose  beneath  the  ray    [fast — 
Of  the  still  moon,  my  spirit  onward  past  I 

Beneath  truth's  steady  beams  upon  its  tumult  cast. 

XIII. 

It  shall  be  thus  no  more  !  too  long,  too  long,  ( 

Sons  of  the  glorious  dead  !  have  ye  lain  bound 
In  darkness  and  in  ruin. — Hope  is  strong, 
Justice  and  Truth  their  winged  child  have  found — 
Awake  !   arise  !   until  the  mighty  sound 
Of  your  career  shall  scatter  in  its  gust 
The  thrones  of  the  oppressor,  and  the  ground 
Hide  the  last  altar's  unregarded  dust, 

Whose  Idol  has  so  long  betrayed  your  impious  trust. 
xiy. 
It  must  be  so — ^I  will  arise  and  waken 
The  multitude,  and  like  a  sulphurous  hill. 
Which  on  a  sudden  from  its  snows  had  shaken 
The  s\yoon  of  ages,  it  shall  burst,  and  fill 
The  world  with  cleansing  fire  ;  it  must,  it  will — 
It  may  not  be  restrained  ! — and  who  shall  stand 
Amid  the  rocking  earthquake  steadfast  still. 
But  Laon  ?  on  high  Freedom's  desert  land 

A  tower  whose   marble  walls  the  leagued  storms 
withstand ! 

XV. 

One  summer  night,  in  commune  with  the  hope 

Thus  deeply  fed,  amid  those  ruins  gray 

I  watched,  beneath  the  dark  sky's  starry  cope ; 

And  ever  from  that  hour  upon  me  lay 

The  burden  of  this  hope,  and  night  or  day, 

In  vision  or  in  dream,  clove  to  my  breast ; 

Among  mankind,  or  vi'hen  gone  far  away 

To  the  lone  shores  and  mountains,  'twas  a  guest. 

Which  followed  where  I  fled,  and  watched  when  I 
did  rest. 

xvr. 
These  hopes  found  words  through  which  my  spirit 
To  weave  a  bondage  of  such  sym])athy      [sought 
As  might  create  some  response  to  the  thought 
Which  ruled  me  now — and  as  the  vapours  lie 
Bright  hi  the  outspread  morning's  radiancy. 
So  were  these  thoughts  invested  with  the  light 
Of  language;  and  all  bosoms  made  reply 
On  which  its  lustre  streamed,  whene'er  it  might 

Through   darkn(>ss  wide   and  deep  those   tranced 
spirits  smite. 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


79 


Yes,  many  an  eye  with  dizzy  tears  was  dim, 
And  oft  I  thought  to  clasji  my  own  heart's  brother, 
When  I  could  feel  the  Hstener'a  senses  swim, 
And  hear  his  hreath  its  own  swift  gaspings  smother 
Even  as  my  words  evoked  tliem — and  another, 
And  yet  another,  I  did  fondly  deem, 
Felt  tliat  we  all  were  sons  of  one  p-eat  mother ; 
And  the  cold  truth  such  sad  reverse  did  seem, 
As  to  awake  in  grief  from  some  delightful  dream. 

XVIII. 

Yes,  oft  beside  the  ruined  laliyrinth 
Which  skirts  the  hoary  caves  of  the  green  deep. 
Did  Laon  and  his  iricnd  on  one  gray  plinth. 
Round  whose  worn  base  the  wild  waves  hiss  and 
Resting  at  eve,  a  lofty  converse  keep :  [leap. 

And  that  his  friend  was  false,  may  now  be  said 
Calmly — that  he  like  other  men  could  weep 
Tears  which  are  lies,  and  could  betray  and  spread 
Snares  for  that  guileless  heart  which  for  his  own 
had  bled. 

XIX. 

Then,  had  no  great  aim  recompensed  my  sorrow, 
I  must  have  sought  dark  respite  from  its  stress 
In  dreamless  rest,  in  sleep  that  sees  no  morrow — 
For  to  tread. life's  dismaying  wilderness 
Without  one  smile  to  cheer,  one  voice  to  bless, 
Amid  the  snares  and  scofts  of  human  kind. 
Is  hard — but  I  betrayed  it  not,  nor  less 
With  love  tliat  scorned  return,  sought  to  unbind 
The  interwoven  clouds  which  make  its  wisdom  blind. 

XX. 

With  deathless  minds,  which  leave  where  they  have 
A  path  of  light,  my  soul  communion  knew ;  [past 
Till  from  that  glorious  intercourse,  at  last, 
As  from  a  mine  of  magic  store,  I  drew 
Words  which  were  weapons ; — round   my  heart 

there  grew 
Tbe  adamantine  armour  of  their  power, 
And  from  my  fancy  wings  of  golden  hue 
Sprang  forth — yet  not  alone  from  wisdom's  tovi'er, 
.  A  minister  of  truth,  these  plumes  young  Laon  bore. 
xxr. 
An  orphan  with  my  parents  lived,  whose  eyes 
Were  load-stars  of  delight,  which  drew  me  home 
When  I  might  wander  forth  ;  nor  did  I  prize 
Aught  human  thing  beneath  Heaven's  mighty 

dome 
Beyond  this  child  :  so  when  sad  hours  were  come, 
And  baffled  hope  like  ice  still  clung  to  me. 
Since  kin  were  cold,  and  friends  had  now  become 
Heartless  and  felse,  I  turned  from  all,  to  be, 
Cy  thna,  the  only  source  of  tears  and  smiles  to  thee. 

XXIT. 

What  wert  thou  then  1     A  child  most  infantine, 
Yet  wandering  far  bej-ond  that  innocent  age 
In  all  but  its  sweet  looks  and  mien  divine ; 
Even  then,  methought,  with  the  world's  tyrantrage 
A  patient  warfare  thy  young  heart  did  wage. 
When  those  soft  eyes  of  scarcely  conscious  thought, 
Some  tale,  or  thine  own  fancies,  would  engage 
To  overflow  with  tears,  or  converse  fraught 
With  passion,  o'er  their  depths  its  fleeting  light 
had  wrought. 


XXIII. 

She  moved  upon  this  earth  a  shape  of  brichtness, 
A  power,  that  from  its  objects  scarcely  drew 
One  impulse  of  her  being — in  her  lightness 
Most  like  some  radiant  cloud  of  morning  dew 
Which  wanders  through  the  waste  air's  pathless 
To  nourish  some  far  desert ;  she  did  seem   [blue, 
Beside  me,  gathering  beauty  as  she  grew. 
Like  the  bright  shade  of  some  immortal  dream 

Which  walks,  when  tempest  sleeps,  the  wave  of 
life's  dark  stream. 

xxir. 
As  mine  own  shadow  was  this  child  to  me, 
A  second  self,  far  dearer  and  more  fair ; 
Which  clothed  in  undissolving  radiancy 
All  those  steep  paths  which  languor  and  despair 
Of  human  things  had  made  so  dark  and  bare, 
But  which  I  trod  alone — nor,  till  bereft 
Of  friends,  and  overcome  by  lonely  care, 
Knew  I  what  solace  for  that  loss  was  left. 

Though  by  a  bitter  wound  my  trusting  heart  was 
cleft. 

XXV. 

Once  she  was  dear,  now  she  was  all  I  had 
To  love  in  human  life — this  playmate  sweet. 
This  child  of  twelve  years  old — so  she  was  made 
My  sole  associate,  and  her  willing  feet 
Wandered  with  mine  where  earth  and  ocean  meet, 
Beyond  the  aerial  mountains  whose  vast  cells 
The  unreposing  billows  ever  beat. 
Through  forests  wide  and  old,  and  lawny  dells, 
Where  boughs  of  incense  droop  over  the  emerald 
wells. 

XXVI. 

And  warm  and  light  I  felt  her  clasping  hand 
When  twined  in  mine :  she  followed  where  I  went, 
Through  the  lone  paths  of  our  immortal  land. 
It  had  no  waste,  but  some  memorial  lent 
Which  strung  me  to  my  toil — some  monument 
Vital  with  mind :  then  Cythna  by  my  side. 
Until  the  bright  and  beaming  day  were  spent, 
Would  rest,  with  looks  entreating  to  abide. 
Too  earnest  and  too  sweet  ever  to  be  denied. 

XXVII. 

And  soon  I  could  not  have  refused  her — thus 
For  ever,  day  and  night,  we  two  were  ne'er 
Parted,  but  when  brief  sleep  divided  us  : 
And,  when  the  pauses  of  the  lulling  air 
Of  noon  beside  the  sea  had  made  a  lair 
For  her  soothed  senses,  in  my  arms  she  slept. 
And  I  kept  watch  over  her  slumbers  there. 
While,  as  the  shifting  visions  over  her  swept. 
Amid  her  innocent  rest  by  turns  she  smiled  and 
wept. 

XXVTII. 

And,  in  the  murmur  of  her  dreams,  was  heard 
Sometimes  the  name  of  Laon  :  suddenly 
She  would  arise,  and,  like  the  secret  bird 
Whom  sunset  wakens,  fill  the  shore  and  sky 
With  her  sweet  accents — a  wild  melody  ! 
Hymns  which  my  soul  -had  woven  to  Freedom, 

strong 
The  source  of  passion,  whence  they  rose  to  be 
Triumphant  strains,  which,  like  a  spirit's  toncue. 
To  the  enchanted  waves  that  child  of  glory  smig. 


80 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


Her  white  arms  lifted  throuph  tlic  shadowy  stream 
Of  her  loose  hair — oil,  excellently  great 
Seemed  to  me  then  my  purpose,  the  vast  theme 
Of  those  impassioned  songs,  when  Cythna  sate 
Amid  tlic  calm  which  rapture  doth  create 
After  its  tumult,  her  heart  vibrating, 
Her  sj)irit  o'er  the  ocean's  floating  state 
From  her  deep  eyes  far  wandering,  on  the  wing 
Of  visions  that  were  mine,  beyond   its   utmost 
spring. 

XXX. 

For,  before  Cythna  loved  it,  had  my  song 

Peoj)led  with  thoughts  the  boundless  universe, 

A  mighty  congregation,  which  vs'crc  strong 

Where'er  they  trod  the  darkness  to  disperse 

The  cloud  of  that  unutterable  curse 

Which  clings  upon  mankind  : — all  things  became 

Slaves  to  my  holy  and  heroic  verse, 

Eartli,  sea,  and  sky,  the  planets,  life,  and  fame, 

And  fate,  or  whate'er  else  binds  the  world's  won- 
drous frame. 

xxxr. 
And  this  beloved  child  thus  felt  the  sway 
Of  my  conceptions,  gathering  like  a  cloud 
The  very  wind  on  which  it  rolls  away  : 
Hers  too  were  all  my  tlioughts,  ere  yet,  endowed 
With  music  and  with  light,  their  fountains  flowed 
In  poesy ;  and  her  still  and  earnest  flvce, 
Pallid  with  feelings  which  intensely  glowed 
Within,  was  turned  on  mine  willi  speechless  grace. 

Watching  the  hopes  which  there  her  heart  had 
learned  to  trace. 

XXXII. 

In  me,  communion  with  this  purest  being 
Kindled  intcnscr  zeal,  and  made  me  wise 
In  knowledge,  which  in  hers  mine  own  mind  seeing. 
Left  in  the  human  world  few  mysteries : 
How  without  fear  of  evil  or  disguise 
Was  Cythna ! — what  a  spirit  strong  and  mild, 
Which  death,  or  pain,  or  peril,  could  despise, 
Yet  melt  in  tenderness !  what  genius  wild. 
Yet  mighty,  was  enclosed  within  one  simple  child ! 

XXXIII. 

New  lore  was  this — old  age  with  its  gray  hair, 
And  wrinkled  legends  of  unworthy  things, 
And  icy  sneers,  is  nought:  it  cannot  dare 
To  burst  the  chains  which  life  for  ever  flings 
On  the  entangled  soul's  asjjiring  wings. 
So  is  it  cold  and  cruel,  and  is  made 
The  careless  slave  of  that  dark  power  which  brings 
Evil,  like  blight  on  man,  who,  still  betrayed. 
Laughs  o'er  the  grave  in  which  his  living  hopes 
arc  laid. 

XXXIV. 

Nor  arc  the  strong  and  the  severe  to  keep 
The  empire  of  the  world :  thus  Cythna  taught 
Even  in  the  visions  of  her  eloquent  sleep. 
Unconscious   of  the   power   through  which   she 
The  woof  of  such  intelligible  thought,  [wrought. 
As  from  the  tranquil  strength  which  cradled  lay 
In  her  smile-peopled  rest,  my  spirit  sought 
"Why  the  deceiver  and  the  slave  has  sway 
O'er  heralds  so  divine  of  truth's  arising  day. 


XXXV. 

Within  that  fairest  form,  the  female  mind 
Untainted  by  the  poison  clouds  which  rest 
On  the  dark  world,  a  sacred  home  did  find : 
But  else,  from  the  wide  earth's  maternal  breast, 
Victorious  Evil,  which  had  dispossest 
All  native  power,  had  those  fair  children  torn. 
And  made  them  slaves  to  soothe  his  vile  uiuest, 
And  minister  to  lust  its  joys  forlorn. 
Till  they  had  learned  to  breathe  the  atmosphere 
of  scorn. 

XXXVI. 

This  misery  was  but  coldly  felt,  till  she 
liecame  my  only  friend,  who  had  indued 
My  jjurpose  with  a  wider  sympathy ; 
Thus,  Cythna  mourned  with  me  the  ser\-itude 
In  which  the  half  of  humankind  were  mewed. 
Victims  of  lust  and  hate,  the  slaves  of  slaves : 
She  mourned  that  grace  and  })0wer  were  thrown 
To  the  hyena  lust,  who,  among  graves,    fas  food 
Over  his  loathed  meal,  laughing  in  agony,  raves. 

XXXVII. 

And  I,  still  gazing  on  that  glorious  child. 

Even    as   these    thoughts    flushed    o'er    her: — 

'•  Cythna  sweet. 
Well  w^ith  the  world  art  thou  unreconciled; 
Never  will  peace  and  human  nature  meet, 
Till  free  and  equal  man  and  woman  greet 
Domestic  peace ;  and  ere  this  power  can  malce 
In  human  hearts  its  calm  and  holy  seat, 
This  slavery  must  be  broken" — as  I  spake. 
From  Cythna's  eyes  a  light  of  exultation  brake. 

XXXYIII. 

She  replied  earnestly  : — •'  It  shall  be  mine, 
This  task,  mine,  Laon  ! — thou  hast  much  to  gain; 
Nor  wilt  thou  at  poor  Cythna's  pride  repme, 
If  she  should  lead  a  happy  female  train 
To  meet  thee  over  the  rejoicing  plain. 
When  myriads  at  thy  call  shall  throng  around 
The  Golden  City." — Then  the  child  did  strain 
My  arm  upon  her  tremulous  heart,  and  wound 
Her  own  about  my  neck,  till  some  reply  she  found. 

XXXIX. 

I  smiled,  and  spake  not "  Wherefore  dost  thou 

At  what  I  say  1   Laon,  I  am  not  weak,        [smile 
And,  though  my  cheek  might  become  pale  the 
With  thee,  if  thou  desirest,  will  I  seek       [while. 
Through  their  array  of  banded  slaves  to  wreak 
Kuin  upon  the  tyrants.     I  had  thought 
It  was  more  hard  to  turn  my  unpractised  check 
To  scorn  and  shame,  and  this  beloved  spot 
And  thee,  O  dearest  Friend,  to  leave  and  murmur  not. 

XL. 

«  Whence  came  I  what  I  am  ?  Thou,  Iiaon,knowcst 
How  a  young  chil<l  should  thus  undaunted  be; 
Mcthinks,  it  is  a  power  which  thou  bestowest, 
Through  which  I  seek,  by  most  resembling  thee, 
So  to  become  most  good,  and  great,  and  free ; 
Yet  far  beyond  this  Ocean's  utmost  roar 
In  towers  and  huts  are  many  like  to  me. 
Who,  could  they  sec  thine  eyes,  or  feel  such  lore 
As  I  have  learnt  from  them,  like  me  would  fear 
no  more. 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


'•Thinkest  thou  tliat  I  shall  s|H';ik  iinskiiru!Iy, 
And  none  will  lu'cil  mc  ?   I  rcincinhi'r  now, 
How  once,  ii  slave  in  tortures  doomed  to  die, 
Was  saved,  because  in  accents  sweet  and  low 
He  sang  a  son;^  his  Judge  loved  lona;  asjo. 
As  he  was  led  to  death. — All  shall  relent     [How, 
Who  hear  me — tears  as  mine  have  flowed,  shall 
Hearts  beat  as  mine  now  beats,  with  such  intent 
As  renovates  the  world;  a  will  omnipotent! 

XLII. 

"  Yes,  I  will  tread  Pride's  golden  palaces. 
Through  Penury's  roofless  huts  and,  s(iualid  cells 
Will  I  descend,  where'er  in  abjectncss 
Woman  with  some  vile  slave  her  tyrant  dwells. 
There  with  the  music  of  thine  own  sweet  spells 
Will  disenchant  the  captives,  and  will  pour 
For  the  despairing,  from  the  crystal  wells 
Of  thy  deep  spirit,  reason's  mighty  lore. 
And  power  shall  then  abound,  and  hope  arise  once 
more. 

XLIIT. 

"  Can  man  be  free  if  woman  be  a  slave  ?  [air 
Chain  one  who  lives,  and  breathes  this  boundless 
To  the  corruption  of  a  closed  grave  !  [hear 

Can  they  whose  mates  are  beasts,  condemned  to 
Scorn,  heavier  far  than  toil  or  anguish,  dare 
To  trample  their  oppressors?     In  their  home 
Among  their  babes,  thou  knowest  a  curse  would 

wear 
The  shape  of  woman — hoary  crime  would  come 
Behind,  and  fraud  rebuild  religion's  tottering  dome. 

XLIV. 

"  I  am  a  child  : — I  would  not  yet  depart. 
When  I  go  forth  alone,  bearing  the  lamp 
Aloft  wliich  thou  hast  kindled  in  my  heart. 
Millions  of  slaves  from  many  a  dungeon  damp 
Shall  leap  in  joy,  as  the  benumbing  cramp 
Of 'ages  leaves  their  limbs — no  ill  may  harm 
Thy  Cythna  ever — truth  its  radiant  stamp 
Has  fixed,  as  an  invulnerable  charm 
Upon  her  children's  brow,  dark  falsehood  to  disarm. 

XLV. 

"  Wait  yet  awhile  for  the  appointed  day — 
Thou  wilt  depart,  and  I  with  tears  shall  stand 
Watching  thy  dim  sail  skirt  the  ocean  gray ; 
Amid  the  dwellers  of  this  lonely  land 
I  shall  remain  alone — and  thy  command 
Shall  then  dissolve  the  world's  unquiet  trance, 
And,  multitudinous  as  the  desert  sand 
Borne  on  the  storm,  its  millions  sliall  advance. 
Thronging  round  thee,  the  light  of  their  deliverance. 

XLVI. 

«  Then,  like  the  forests  of  some  pathless  mountain, 
Which  from  remotest  glens  two  warring  winds 
Involve  in  fire,  which  not  the  loosened  fountain 
Of  broadest  floods  might  quench,  shall  all  the  kinds 
Of  evil  catch  from  our  uniting  minds  [then 

The  spark  which  must  consume  them ; — Cythna 
Will  have  cast  of!"  the  impotence  that  binds 
Her  childhood  now,  and  through  the  paths  of  men 
Will  pass,  as  the  charmed   bird   that  haunts  the 
serpent's  den. 

II 


XLVII. 

"  We  ))art ! — O  Laon,  I  must  dare,  nor  tremble, 
'J'o  meet  those  looks  no  more  ! — Oh,  heavy  stroke  ! 
Sweet  brother  of  my  soul;  can  I  dissemble 
The  agony  of  this  thought?" — As  thus  she  sywkc 
'J'he  gathered  sobs  her  quivering  accents  broke 
And  in  my  arms  she  hid  her  beating  breast. 
I  remained  still  for  tears — sudden  she  woke 
As  one  awakes  from  .sleep,  and  wildly  prest 
My  bosom,  her  whole  frame  impetuously  posscst. 

XLVIIT. 

"  Wc  part  to  meet  again — but  yon  blue  waste, 
Yon  desert  wide  and  deep,  holds  no  recess 
Within  whose  happy  silence,  thus  embraced 
We  might  survive  all  ills  in  one  caress : 
Nor  doth  the  grave — I  fear  'tis  jiassionless — 
Nor  yon  cold  vacant  Heaven  : — we  meet  again 
Within  the  minds  of  men,  whose  lips  shall  bless 
Our  memory,  and  whose  hopes  its  light  retain 
When   these  dissevered   bones  are  trodden  in  the 
plain." 

XLIX. 

I  could  not  speak,  though  she  had  ceased,  for  now 
The  fountains  of  her  feeling,  swift  and  deep, 
Seemed  to  suspend  the  tumult  of  their  flow  ; 
So  we  arose,  and  by  the  starlight  steep 
Went  homeward — neither  did  we  speak  nor  weep, 

But  pale,  were  calm With  passion  thus  subdued, 

Like  evening  shades  that  o'er  the  mountains  creep 
We  moved  towards  our  home ;  where,  in  this  mood, 
Each  from  the  other  sought  refuge  in  solitude. 

CANTO  III. 

I. 

What  thoughts   had  sway  o'er  Cythna's  lonely 

slumber 
That  night,  I  know  not ;  but  my  own  did  seem 
As  if  they  might  ten  thousand  years  outnumber 
Of  waking  life,  the  visions  of  a  dream. 
Which  hid  in  one  dim  gulf  the  troubled  stream 
Of  mind;  a  boundless  chaos  wild  and  vast. 
Whose  limits  yet  were  never  memory's  theme : 
And  I  lay  struggling  as  its  whirlwinds  past,  [aghast. 

Sometimes   for  rapture   sick,  sometimes  for  pain 
II. 
Two  hours,  whose  mighty  circle  did  embrace 
More  time  than  might  make  gray  the  infant  world, 
Rolled  thus,  aweary  and  tumultuous  space: 
When  the  third  came,  like  mist  on  breezes  curled, 
From  my  dim  sleep  a  shadow  was.imfurled: 
Mcthought,  upon  the  threshold  of  a  cave 
I  sate  with  Cythna ;  drooping  briony,  pearled 
With  dew  from  the  wild  streamlet's  shattered  wave, 

Hung,  where  wc  sate,  to  taste  the  joys  which  Nature 
gave. 

III. 
We  lived  a  day  as  we  were  wont  to  live, 
But  nature  had  a  robe  of  glory  on. 
And  the  bright  air  o'er  every  shape  did  weave 
Intenser  hues,  so  that  the  herbless  stone. 
The  leafless  bough  among  the  leaves  alone, 
Had  being  clearer  than  its  own  could  be, 
And  Cythna's  pure  and  radiant  self  was  shone 
In  this  strange  vision,  so  divine  to  me. 

That  if  I  loved  before,  now  love  was  agony. 


82 


THE    REVOLT    OF  ISLAM. 


Morn   flod,  noon  came,  evening,  then   night  ilc- 

sccndpil. 
And  we  prolonged  calm  talk  heneatli  the  sphere 
Of  the  ealni  moon — when,  sviddenly  was  blendcJ 
\\'itli  our  re[)osc  a  nameless  sense  of  fear ; 
And  from  the  cave  l)ehind  I  seemed  to  hear 
Sounds  gathering  upwards! — accents  incomplete 

-  And  stilled  shrieks, — :ind  now,  more  near  and  near, 
A  tunuilt  and  a  rush  of  tlironging  feet         [beat. 

The  cavern's  secret  depths  beneath  the  earth  did 

V. 

The  scene  was  changed,  and  away,  away,  away  ! 
Throuixh  the  air  and  over  tlie  sea  we  sped, 
And  Cythna  in  my  sheltering  bosom  lay, 
And  the  winds  bore  me ; — through  the  d;irkness 
Around,  the  gaping  earth  then  vomited     [spread 
Legions  of  foul  and  ghastly  shapes,  which  hung 
Upon  my  flight ;  and  ever  as  we  fled 
Thej- plucked  at  Cythna — soon  to  me  then  clung 
A  sense  of  actual  things  those  monstrous  dreams 
among. 

VI. 

And  I  lay  struggling  in  tiie  impotence 
Of  sleep,  while  outward  life  liad  burst  its  bound, 
Tliough,  still  deluded,  strove  the  tortured  sense 
To  its  dire  wanderings  to  adapt  the  sound 
Which  in  the  licrht  of  morn  was  poured  around 
Our  dwelling — breathless,  pale,  and  unaware 
I  rose,  and  all  the  cottage  crowded  found     [hare. 
With  armed  men,  whose  glittering  swords  were 
And  whose  degraded  limbs   the   tyrant's  garb  did 
wear, 

TIT. 

And  ere  with  rapid  lips  and  g.athered  brow 
I  could  demand  the  cause — a  feeble  shriek — 
It  was  a  feelile  shriek,  faint,  far,  and  low. 
Arrested  me — my  mien  grew  calm  and  meek, 
And,  grasping  a  small  knife,  1  went  to  ,seek 
That  voice  among  the  crowd — 'twas  Cythna's  cry ! 
Beneath  most  calm  resolve  did  agony  wreak 
Its  whirlwind  rage : — so  I  past  quietly  [lie 

Till  I  beheld,  where  bound,  that  dearest  cliild  did 

VIII. 

I  started  to  behold  her,  for  delight 
And  exultation,  and  a  joyance  free, 
Solemn,  serene,  and  lofiy,  filled  the  liafht 
Of  the  calm  smile  with  which  she  looked  on  mc: 
So  that  I  feared  some  brainless  ccstacy. 
Wrought  from  that  bitter  wo  had  wildcred  her — 
"  Farewell !  farewell !"   she  said,  as  I  drew  nigh. 
"  At  first  my  jieace  was  marred  by  this  strange  stir, 
Now  I  am  calm  as  trulh — its  chosen  minister. 

IX. 

"  Look  not  so,  Laon — say  farewell  in  hope : 
These  bloody  men  are  but  the  slaves  who  bear 
Their  mistress  to  her  task — it  was  my  scope 
The  slavery  where  they  drag  mc  now,  to  share, 
And  among  captives  willing  chains  to  wear 
Awhile — the    rest    thou    knowest — return,  dear 
Let  our  first  triumph  trample  the  despair  [friend! 
Which  would  ensnare  us  now,  for  in  the  end 
In  victory  or   in  death  our  hopes  and   fears  must 
blend." 


These  words  had  fallen  on  my  unheeding  ear, 
^\  liilst  I  had  watched  .the  motions  of  tlie  crew 
Willi  seeming  careless  gr.ice ;  not  many  were 
AroHiid  her,  for  their  conn'ades  just  withdrew 
To  gu'.ird  some  otlier  victim — so  I  drew 
A[y  knife,  and  with  one  impulse,  suddenly 
AH  unaware  three  of  their  number  slew,         [cry 
Ajid  grasped  a  fourth  by  the  throat,  and  with  loud 
M}'  countrjmen  invoked  to  death  or  liberty  ! 

XI. 

What  followed  then,  I  know  not — for  a  stroke 
On  my  raised  arm  and  naked  head  came  down, 
Filling  mj- eyes  with  blood — ^whcn  I  awoke, 
I  felt  that  they  had  bound  ine  in  my  swoon. 
And  up  a  rock  which  overhangs  the  town. 
By  the  steep  path  were  bearing  me  :  below 
The  jilain  was  filled  with  slaughter, — overthrown 
The  vineyards  and  the  harvests,  and  the  glow 
Of  blazing  roofs  shone  far  o'er  the  white  Ocean's 
flow. 

XII. 

Upon  that  rock  a  mighty  column  stood, 
Whose  capital  seemed  sculjitured  in  the  sky, 
\AMii(h  to  the  wanderers  o'er  the  solitude 
Of  distant  seas,  from  ages  long  gone  by, 
Had  many  a  landmark;  o'er  its  height  to  fly 
Scu'cely  the  cloud,  the  vulture,  or  the  blast. 
Has  power — and  when  the  shades  of  evening  lie 
On  Earth  and  Ocean,  its  carved  snnmiits  cast 
The  sunken  daylight  far  through  the  ai-rial  waste. 


They  bore  me  to  a  cavern  in  the  hill 
Beneath  that  column,  and  unbound  me  there  : 
And  one  did  strip  me  stark;  and  one  did  fill 
A  vessel  from  the  ])utrid  pool ;  one  bare 
A  lighted  torch,  and  four  with  friendless  care 
Ouiiled  my  steps  the  cavcrn-jiaths  along. 
Then  up  a  steep  and  dark  and  narrow  stair 
We  wound,  until  the  torches'  fiery  tongue 
Amid  the  gushing  day  beamless  and  pallid  hung. 

XIV. 

They  raised  me  to  the  platform  of  the  pile, 
That  column's  dizzy  height: — the  grate  of  brass 
Through  which  they  thrust  me,  open  stood  the 
As  to  its  ])onderous  and  suspended  mass,    [while 
With  chains  which  cat  into  the  flesh,  alas ! 
With  brazen  links,  my  naked  limbs  they  hound : 
The  grate,  as  they  departed  to  repass, 
With  horrid  clangour  fell,  and  the  far  .sound 
Of  their  retiring    steps  in  the  dense  gloom  was 
drowned. 

XV. 

The  noon  was  calm  and  bright: — around  that 
The  ov(Thancring  sky  and  circling  sea     [cohnnn 
Spread  forth  in  silentness  profound  and  solemn 
The  darkness  of  brief  frenzy  cast  on  me. 
So  tliat  I  knew  not  my  own  misery  ; 
The  islands  and  the  mountains  in  the  day 
Like  clouds  reposed  afar ;  and  I  could  see 
The  town  among  the  woods  below  that  lay. 
And  the  dark  rocks  which  bound  the  bright  and 
glassy  bay. 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


83 


It  was  so  calm,  that  scarce  the  featl\rrv  weed 
Sown  by  some  eagle  on  the  topmost  .stone 
Swayed  in  tlie  air : — so  bright,  tliat  noon  did  breed 
No  sliadow  in  the  sky  beside  mine  own — 
Mine,  and  the  shadow  of  my  chain  alone. 
Below  the  smoke  of  roofs  involved  in  flame 
Rested  like  ni^ht,  all  else  was  clearly  shown 
In  the  broad  glare,  yet  sound  to  me  none  came, 
But  of  the  hving  blood  that  ran  within  my  frame. 

XVII. 

The  peace  of  madness  fled,  and  ah,  too  soon  ! 
A  ship  was  lying  on  the  sunny  main  ; 
It-s  sails  were  flagging  in  the  lireathloss  noon — 
Its  shadow  lay  beyond — that  sight  again 
Waked,  with  its  presence  in  my  tranced  brain 
The  stings  of  a  known  sorrow,  keen  and  cold : 
I  knew  that  ship  bore  Cythna  o'er  the  plain 
Of  wators,  to  her  brightning  slavery  sold,   [untold. 
And  watched  it  with  such  thoughts  as  must  remain 

XVIII. 

I  watched,  until  the  shades  of  evening  wrapt 
Earth  like  an  exhalation — then  the  bark 
Moved,  for  that  calm  was  by  the  sunset  snapt. 
It  moved  a  speck  upon  the  Ocean  dark: 
Soon  the  wan  stars  came  forth,  and  I  could  mark 
Its  path  no  more !    I  sought  to  close  mine  eyes, 
But,  like  the  balls,  their  lids  were  stiff  and  stark ; 
I  would  have  risen,  but.  ere  that  I  could  rise. 
My  parched  skin  was  split  with  piercing  agonies. 

XTX. 

I  gnawed  my  brazen  chain,  and  sought  to  sever 
Its  adamantine  links,  that  I  might  die : 
O  Liberty  !  forgive  the  base  endeavour, 
Forgive  mc,  if,  reserved  for  victory, 
The  Champion  of  thy  faith  e'er  sought  to  fly — 
That  starry  night,  with  its  clear  silence,  sent 
Tameless  resolve  which  laughed  at  misery 
Into  my  soul — Jinked  remembrance  lent 
To  that  such  power,  to  me  such  a  severe  content. 

XX. 

To  breathe,  to  be,  to  hope,  or  to  despair 
And  die,  I  questioned  not ;  nor,  though  the  Sun 
Its  shafts  of  agony  kindling  though  the  air 
Moved  over  me,  nor  though  in  evening  dun, 
Or  when  the  stars  their  visible  courses  run, 
Or  morning,  the  wide  universe  was  spread 
In  drean,'  calmness  round  mc.  did  I  shun 
Its  presence,  nor  seek  refuge  with  the  dead 
From  one  faint  hope  whose  flower  a  dropping  poison 
shed. 

XXT. 

Two  days  thus  past — neither  raved  nor  died — ■ 
Thirst  raged  within  me,  like  a  scorpion's  nest 
Built  in  mine  entrails;  I  had  spurned  aside 
The  water-vessel,  while  despair  possest      fuprest 
My  thoughts,  and  now  no  drop  remained !     The 
Of  the  third  sun  brought  hunger — but  the  crust 
Which  had  been  left,  was  to  my  craving  breast 
Fuel,  not  food.     I  chewed  the  bitter  dust, 
And  bit   my  bloodless  arm,  and  hcked  the  brazen 
rust 


My  brain  began  to  fail  when  the  fourth  morn 
Burst  o'er  the  golden  isles — a  fearful  sleep. 
Which  through  the  caverns  dreary  and  forlorn 
Of  the  riven  soul,  sent  its  foul  dreams  to  sweep 
With  whirlwind  swiftness — a  fall  far  and  deep, — 
A  gulf,  a  void,  a  sense  of  senseless — 
These  things  dwelt  in  me,  even  as  shadows  keep 
Their  watch  in  some  dim  charnel's  loneliness, 
A  shoreless  sea,  a  sky  sunless  and  planetlcss  ! 

XXIII. 

The  forms  which  peopled  this  terrific  trance 
I  well  remember — like  a  quire  of  devils, 
Around  me  they  involved  a  giddy  dance : 
Legions  seemed  gathering  from  the  misty  levels 
Of  ocean,  to  supply  those  ceaseless  revels,    [vide 
Foul,  ceaseless  shadows  : — thought  could  not  di- 
The  actual  world  from  these  entangling  evils. 
Which  so  bemocked  themselves,  that  I  descried 
All  shapes  hke  mine  own  self,  Iddeously  multijilied. 

XXIV. 

The  sense  of  day  and  night,  of  false  and  true, 
Was  dead  within  me.     Yet  two  visions  burst 
That  darkness — one,  as  since  that  hour  I  knew, 
Was  not  a  phantom  of  the  realms  accurst. 
Where  then  my  spirit  dwelt — but  of  the  first 
I  know  not  yet,  was  it  a  dream  or  no. 
But  both,  though  not  distincter,  were  immersed 
In  hues  which,  when  through  memory's  waste 
they  flow,  [now. 

Make  their  divided  streams  more  bright  and  rapid 
XXV. 
Methought  that  gate  was  lifted,  and  the  seven 
Who  brought  me  thither,  four  stiff  corpses  bare, 
And  from  the  frieze  to  the  four  winds  of  Heaven 
Hung  them  on  high  by  the  entangled  hair : 
Swarthy  were  three — the  fourth  was  vcrv-  fair : 
As  they  retired,  the  golden  moon  upsprung, 
And  eagerly,  out  in  the  giddy  air. 
Leaning  that  I  might  eat,  I  stretched  and  clung 

Over  the  shapeless  depth   in  which  those  corj)ses 
hung. 

XXVT. 

A  woman's  shape,  now  lank  and  cold  and  blue. 
The  dwelling  of  the  many-coloured  worm. 
Hung  there,  the  white  and  hollow  cheek  I  drew' 
To  my  drv  lips— ^what  radiance  did  inform 
Those  horny  eyes  1  whose  was  that  withered  form  1 
Alas,  alas !  it  seemed  that  Cythna's  ghost 
Laughed  in  those  looks,  and  that  the  flesh  was  warm 
Within  my  teeth  ! — a  \yhirlwind  keen  as  frost 
Then  in  its  sinking  gulfs  my  sickened  spirit  tost. 

XXVIT. 

Then  seemed  it  that  a  tameless  hurricane 
Arose,  and  bore  me  in  its  dark  career 
Beyond  the  sun,  beyond  the  stars  that  wane 
On  the  verge  of  formless  space — it  languished  there, 
And,  dying,  left  a  silence  lone  and  drear. 
More  horrible  than  famine  : — in  the  deep 
The  shape  of  an  old  man  did  then  appear, 
Stately  and  beautiful ;  that  dreadful  sleep 
His  heavenly  smiles  dispersed,  and  I  could  wake 
and  weep. 


84 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


XXVIII. 

And  when  the  hlindiiiti  tears  had  fallen,  I  saw 
That  column,  and  those  coq)scs,  and  the  moon, 
And  felt  the  poisonous  tooth  of  hunger  gnaw 
My  vitals,  I  rejoiced,  as  if  the  boon 
Of  senseless  death  would  be  accorded  soon ; — 
When  from  that  stony  gloom  a  voice  arose, 
Solemn  and  sweet  as  when  low  minds  attune 
The  midnight  pines;  the  grate  did  then  unclose, 
And  on  that  reverend  form  the  moonlight  did  repose. 


He  struck  my  chains,  and  gently  spake  and  smiled  : 
As  they  were  loosened  by  that  Hermit  old, 
Mine  eyes  were  of  their  madness  half  beguiled, 
To  answer  those  kind  looks. — He  did  enfold 
His  giant  arms  around  me  to  uphold 
My  wTctchcd  frame,  my  scorched  limbs  he  wound 
In  linen  moist  and  balmy,  and  as  cold 
As  dew  to  dropping  leaves  : — the  chain,  with  sound 
Like  earthquake,  through  the  chasm  of  that  steep 
stair  did  bound 

As,  lifting  me,  it  fell ! — What  next  I  heard. 
Were  billows  leaping  on  the  harbour  bar. 
And  the  shrill  sea-wind,  whose  breath  idly  stirred 
My  hair ; — I  looked  abroad,  and  saw  a  star 
Shining  beside  a  sail,  and  distant  far 
That  mountain  and  its  column,  the  known  mark 
Of  those  who  in  the  wide  deep  wandering  are. 
So  that  I  feared  some  Spirit,  fell  and  dark, 
In  trance  had  lain  me  thus  within  a  fiendish  bark. 

XXXI. 

For  now,  indeed,  over  the  salt  sea  billow 
I  sailed :  yet  dared  not  look  u))on  the  shape 
Of  him  who  ruled  the  helm,  although  the  pillow 
For  my  light  head  was  hollowed  in  his  lap, 
And  my  bare  limbs  his  mantle  did  enwrap, 
Fearing  it  was  a  fiend :  at  last,  he  bent 
O'er  me  his  aged  face ;  as  if  to  snap 
Those  dreadful  thoughts  the  gentle  grandsi re  bent, 
And  to  my  inmost  soul  his  sootlung  looks  he  sent. 

XXXII. 

A  soft  and  healing  potion  to  my  lips 
At  intervals  he  raised — now  looked  on  high. 
To  mark  if  yet  the  starry  giant  dips 
His  zone  in  the  dim  sea — now  chceringly, 
Though  he  said  little,  did  he  speak  to  inc. 
"  It  is  a  friend  beside  thee — take  good  cheer, 
Poor  victim,  thou  art  now  at  liberty  !" 
I  joyed  as  those  a  human  tone  to  hear, 
Who  m  cells  deep  and  lone  have  languished  many 
a  year. 

XXXIII. 

A  dim  and  feeble  joy,  whose  glimpses  oft. 
Were  quenched  in  a  relapse  of  wildering  dreams, 
Yet  still  methought  we  sailed,  until  aloft 
1'hc  stars  of  night  grew  pallid,  and  the  beams 
Of  morn  descended  on  the  ocean-streams. 
And  still  that  aged  man,  so  grand  and  mild. 
Tended  me,  even  as  some  sick  mother  seems 
To  hang  in  lioi)e  over  a  dying  child, 
Till  in  the  azure  East  darkness  again  was  piled. 


XXXIV. 

And  tlien  the  night-wind,  streaming  from  the  shore. 
Sent  odours  dying  sweet  across  the  sea. 
And  the  swift  boat  the  little  waves  which  bore, 
Were  cut  by  its  keen  keel,  though  slantingly; 
Soon  I  could  hear  the  leaves  sigh,  and  could  see 
The  myrtle-blossom  starring  the  dim  grove. 
As  past  the  pebbly  beach  the  boat  did  flee 
On  sidelong  wing  into  a  silent  cove, 
Where  ebon  pines  a  shade  under  the  starlight  wove. 

CANTO  IV. 
I. 

The  old  man  took  the  oars,  and  the  bark 
Smote  on  the  beach  beside  a  tower  of  stone ; 
It  was  a  crumbling  heap  whose  portal  dark 
With  blooming  ivy  trails  was  overgrown ; 
Upon  whose  floor  .the  spangling  sands  were  strown. 
And  rarest  sea-shells,  which  the  eternal  flood, 
Slave  to  the  mother  of  the  months,  had  thrown 
Within  the  walls  of  that  great  tower,  which  stood 
A  changeling  of  man's  art,  nursed  amid  Nature's 
brood. 

II. 
When  the  old  man  his  boat  had  anchored, 
He  wound  me  in  his  arms  with  tender  care. 
And  very  few  but  kindly  words  he  said. 
And  bore  me  through  the  tower  adown  a  stair. 
Whose  smooth  descentsome  ceaseless  step  to  wear 
For  many  a  year  had  fallen. — We  came  at  last 
To  a  small  chamber,  which  with  mosses  rare 
Was  tapestried,  where  me  his  soft;  hands  placed 
Upon  a  couch  of  grass  and  oak-leaves  interlaced. 

III. 
The  moon  was  darting  through  the  lattices 
Its  yellow  light,  warm  as  the  beams  of  day — 
So  wann,  that  to  admit  the  dewy  breeze. 
The  old  man  opened  them ;  the  moonlight  lay, 
Upon  a  lake  whose  waters  wove  their  play 
Even  to  the  threshold  of  that  lonely  home : 
Within  was  seen  in  the  dim  wavering  ray. 
The  antic  sculptured  roof,  and  many  a  tome 
Whose  lore    had  made  that  sage  all  that  he  had 
become. 

IV. 

The  rock-built  barrier  of  the  sea  was  past, — 
And  I  was  on  the  margin  of  a  lake, 
A  lonely  lake,  amid  the  forests  vast 
And  snowy  mountains  : — did  my  spirit  wake 
From  sleep,  as  many-coloured  as  the  snake 
That  girds  eternity  ?  in  life  and  truth. 
Might  now  my  heart  its  cravings  ever  slake? 
Was  Cythna  then  a  ilream,  and  all  my  youth. 
And  all  its  hopes  and  fears,  and  all  its  joy  and  ruth  1 

T. 

Thus  madness  came  again, — a  milder  madness, 
Which  darkened  nought  but  time's  unquiet  How 
With  su]HTii;itviral  sluules  of  clinging  sadness; 
'J'hat  gentle  Hermit,  in  my  helpless  wo, 
By  my  sick  couch  was  busy  to  and  fro, 
liike  a  strong  spirit  miiiistrant  of  good  : 
When  I  was  healed,  he  led  me  forth  to  show 
The  wonders  of  the  sylvan  solitude. 
And  we  together  sate  by  that  isle-fretted  flood. 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


85 


Ho  knew  his  soothing:  words  to  weave  with  skill 
From  all  my  madiipss  told :  like  mine  own  heart, 
Of  Cythna  would  he  question  mo,  until 
That  thrillinij  name  had  ooasod  to  make  me  start, 
From  his  familiar  lips— it  was  not  art, 
Of  wisdom  and  of  justioo  when  he  spoke — 
When  mid  soft  looks  of  pity,  there  would  dart 
A  glance  as  keen  as  is  the  liirhtiiing's  stroke 
Wlien  it  doth  rive  the  knots  of  some  ancestral  oak. 

TII. 

Thus  slowly  from  my  brain  the  darkness  rolled, 
My  thoughts  their  due  array  did  reassume 
Through  the  enchantment  of  that  Hermit  old ; 
Then  I  bethought  me  of  the  glorious  doom 
Of  those  who  sternly  struggle  to  relume 
The  lamp  of  Hope  o'er  man's  bewildered  lot. 
And,  sitting  by  the  waters,  in  the  gloom 
Of  eve,  to  that  fi-iend's  heiirt  I  told  my  thought — 
That  heart  which  had  grown  old,  but  had  corrupted 
not. 

Till. 

That  hoary  man  had  spent  his  livelong  age, 
In  converse  with  the  dead,  who  leave  the  stamp 
Of  ever-burning  thoughts  on  many  a  page. 
When  they  are  gone  into  the  senseless  damp 
Of  graves ! — his  spirit  thus  became  a  lamp 
Of  splendour,  like  to  those  on  which  it  fed. 
Through  peopled  haunts,  the  City  and  the  Camp, 
Deep  thirst  for  knowledge  had  his  footsteps  led, 
And  all  the  ways  of  men  among  mankind  he  read. 

IX. 

But  custom  makcth  blind  and  obdurate 
The  loftiest  hearts : — he  had  beheld  the  wo 
In  which  mankind  was  bound,  but  deemed  that  fate 
^A^hich  made  them  abject  would  preserve  them  so; 
And  in  such  faith,  some  steadfast  joy  to  know, 
He  sought  this  cell :  but,  when  fame  went  abroad 
That  one  in  Argolis  did  undergo 
Torture  for  libert}-,  and  that  the  crowd 
High  truths  from  gifted  hps  had  heard  and  under- 
stood, 

X. 

And  that  the  multitude  was  gathering  wide, 
His  sj)irit  leaped  witliin  his  aged  frame; 
In  lonely  peace  he  could  no  more  abide. 
But  to  the  land  on  which  the  victor's  flame 
Had  fed,  my  native  land,  the  Hermit  came  ; 
Each  heart  was  there  a  shield,  and  every  tongue 
Was  as  a  sword  of  truth — young  Laon's  name 
RalUed  their  secret  hopes,  tliough  tyrants  sung 
Hymns    of  triumphant   joy   our  scattered  tribes 
among. 

XI. 

He  came  to  the  lone  column  on  the  rock, 
And  with  his  sweet  and  mighty  eloquence 
The  hearts  of  those  who  watched  it  did  unlock. 
And  made  them  melt  in  tears  of  penitence. 
They  gav'ehim  entrance  free  to  bear  me  thence, 
"  Since  this,"  the  old  man  said,  "  seven  years  are 
While  slowly  truth  on  thy  benighted  sense  [spent. 
Has  crept;  the  hope  which  wildered  it  has  lent, 
Meanwhile,  to  me  the  power  of  a  sublime  intent. 


"Yes,  from  the  records  of  my  youthful  state, 
And  from  the  lore  of  bards  and  sagos  old. 
From  whatsoe'er  my  wakened  thoughts  create 
Out  of  the  hopes  of  thine  aspirings  bold, 
Have  I  collected  language  to  unfold 
Truth  to  my  countrymen ;  from  shore  to  shore 
Doctrines  of  human  power  my  words  have  told ; 
They  have  been  heard,  and  men  aspire  to  more 
Than  they  have  ever  gained  or  ever  lost  of  yore. 

xm. 

"  In  secret  chambers  ]:)arents  read  and  weep. 
My  writings  to  their  babes,  no  longer  blind ; 
And  young  men  gather  when  their  tyrants  sleep, 
And  vows  of  faith  each  to  the  other  bind  ; 
And  marriageable  maidens,  who  have  pined 
With  love,  till  life  seemed  melting  through  their 
A  warmer  zeal,  a  nobler  hope,  now  find  ;      [look, 
And  every  bosom  thus  is  wrapt  and  shook, 
Like  autumn's  myriad  leaves  in  one  swoln  moun- 
tain brook. 

xir. 

"  The  tyrants  of  the  Golden  Citj'  tremble 
At  voices  which  are  heard  about  the  streets; 
The  ministers  of  fraud  can  scarce  dissemble 
The  lies  of  their  own  heart ;  but  when  one  meets 
Another  at  the  shrine,  he  inly  wects, 
Though  he  says  nothing,  that  the  truth  is  known  ; 
Murderers  are  pale  upon  the  judgment-seats, 
And  gold  grows  vile  even  to  the  wealthy  crone, 
And  laughter  fills  the  Fane,  and  curses  shake  the 
Throne. 

XV. 

"  Kind  thoughts,  and  mighty  hopes,  and  gentle 
Abound,  for  fearless  love,  and  the  pure  law     [deeds 
Of  mild  equality  and  peace  succeeds 
To  faiths  which  long  have  held  the  world  in  awe, 
Bloody,  and  false,  and  cold  : — as  whirlpools  draw 
AH  wrecks  of  Ocean  to  their  chasm,  the  sway 
Of  thy  strong  genius,  Laon,  which  foresaw 
This  hope,  compels  all  spirits  to  obey,  [array. 

Which  rouJid  thy  secret  strength  now  throng  in  wide 

XTI. 

"  For  I  have  been  thy  passive  instrument" — 
(As  thus  the  old  man  spake,  his  countenance 
Gleamed  on  me  like  a  spirit's) — "  thou  hast  lent 
To  me,  to  all,  the  power  to  advance 
Towards  this  unforeseen  deliverance 
From  our  ancestral  chains — ay,  thou  didst  rear 
That  lamp  of  hope  on  high,  which  time,  nor  chance, 
Nor  change  may  not  extinguish,  and  my  share 
Of  good  was  o'er  the  world  its  gathered  beams  to 
bear. 

xvir. 

"  But  I,  alas!  am  both  unknown  and  old, 
And  though  the  woof  of  wisdom  I  know  well 
To  dye  in  hues  of  language,  I  am  cold 
In  seeming,  and  the  hopes  which  inly  dwell 
Mj'  manners  note  that  I  did  long  repel ; 
But  Laon's  name  to  the  tumultuous  throng 
Were  like  the  star  whose  beams  the  waves  compel 
And  tempests,  and  his  soul-subduing  tongue 
Were  as  a  lance  to  quell  the  mailed  crest  of  wrong. 
H 


86 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


wiir. 
'•  Perchance  blood  need  not  flow,  if  thou  at  Icnn^th 
W'ouldst  rise  ;  perchance   the  very  slaves  would 

spare 
Their    brethren    and  themselves ;    great    is    the 
Of  words — for  lately  did  a  maiden  fair,      [strength 
Who  from  her  childhood  has  been  taught  to  bear 
The  tyrant's  heaviest  yoke,  arise,  and  make 
Her  sex  the  law  of  truth  and  freedom  hear  ; 
And  with  these  quiet  words — '  for  thine  own  sake 
I  prithee  spare  me,' — (hd  with  ruth  so  take. 

XIX. 

«  All  hearts,  that  even  the  torturer,  who  had  bound 
Her  meek  calm  frame,  ere  it  was  yet  impaled, 
Loosened  her  weeping  then ;  nor  could  be  found 
One  human  hand  to  harm  her — unassailed 
Therefore,  she  w-alks  through  the  great  City,  veiled 
In  virtue's  adamantine  eloquence,  [mailed, 

'Gainst  scorn,  and  death,  and   pain,  thus  trebly 
And  blending  in  the  smiles  of  that  defence, 
The  Serpent  and  the  Dove,  Wisdom  and  Innocence. 

XX. 

"  Tlie  wild-eyed  women  throng  around  her  path : 
From  their  luxurious  dungeons,  from  the  dust 
Of  meaner  thralls,  from  the  oppressor's  wrath, 
Or  the  caresses  of  his  sated  lust. 
They  congregate  : — in  her  they  j)ut  their  trust ; 
The  tyrants  send  their  armed  slaves  to  quell 
Her  power ; — they,  even  Uko  a  thunder    gust 
Caught  by  some  forest,  bend  beneath  the  spell 
Of  that  young  maiden's  speech,  and  to  their  chiefs 
rebel. 

XXI. 

"  Thus  she  doth  equal  laws  and  justice  teach 
To  woman,  outraged  and  polluted  long ; 
Gathering  the  sweetest  fruit  in  human  reach 
For  those  fair  hands  now  free,  while  armed  wrong 
Trembles  before  her  look,  though  it  be  strong; 
Thousands  thus  dwell  beside  her,  virgins  bright, 
And  matrons  with  their  babes,  a  stately  throng  ! 
Lovers  renew  the  vows  which  they  did  plight 
In  early  faith,  and  hearts  long  parted  now  unite. 

XXII. 

<'  And  homeless  orphans  find  a  home  near  her, 
And  those  poor  victims  of  the  proud,  no  less, 
Fair  wrecks,  on  whom  the  smiling  world  with  stir, 
Thrusts  the  redemption  of  its  wickedness : — 
In  squalid  huts,  and  in  its  palaces 
Sits  Lust  alone,  while  o'er  the  land  is  borne 
Her  voice,  whose  awful  sweetness  doth  repress 
All  evil,  and  her  foes  relenting  turn, 
And  cast  the  vote  of  love  in  hojie's  abandoned  urn. 

XXIII. 

"  So  in  the  populous  City,  a  young  maiden 
Has  baffled  Havoc  of  the  prey  which  he 
Marks  as  his  own,  whene'er  with  chains  o'erladen 
Men  make  them  arms  to  hurl  down  tyranny, 
False  arbiter  between  the  bound  and  free  ; 
And  o'er  the  land,  in  hamlets  and  in  towns 
The  multitudes  collect  tunniltuously, 
And  throng  in  arms  ;  but  tyranny  disowns 
Their  claim,  and  gathers  strength  around  its  trem- 
bling thrones. 


xxir. 

"  Blood  soon,  although  unwilHnEfiy,  to  shed 
The  free  cainiot  fcjrbcar — the  Queen  of  Slaves, 
The  hood-winked  Angel  of  the  blind  and  dead, 
Custom,  with  iron  mace  jioints  to  the  graves 
Where  her  own  standard  desolately  waves 
Over  the  dust  of  I'rophets  and  of  Kings. 
Many  yet  stand  iu  her  array — '  she  paves 
Her  j)ath  with  human  hearts,"  and  o'er  it  flings 
The  wilderins  gloom  of  her  inuncasurable  wings. 


"  There  is  a  plain  beneath  the  City's  wall, 
Bounded  by  misty  n-.nuntains.  wide  and  vast ; 
Millions  there  lift  at  Freedom's  thrilling  call 
Ten  thousand  sUuidards wide;  they  load  the  blast 
Which  bears  one  sound  of  many  voices  j>ast, 
And  startles  on  his  throne  their  scei)trod  foe  : 
He  sits  amid  his  idle  pomp  aghast. 
And  that  his  power  hathjiast  away,  doth  know — 
Why  pause  the  victor  swords  to  seal  his  overthrow  1 

XXTI. 

"  The  tyrant's  guards  resistance  yet  maintain  : 
Fearless,  and  tierce,  and  hard  as  beasts  of  blood  ; 
They  stand  a  speck  amid  the  peopled  plain; 
Carnage  and  ruin  have  been  made  their  food 
From  infancy — ill  has  become  their  good, 
And  for  its  hateful  sake  their  will  lias  wove 
The  claims  which  eat  their  hearts — the  multitude 
Surrounding  them,  with  wprds  of  human  love, 
Seek  from  their  own  decay  their  stubborn  minds  to 
move. 

XXTII. 

"  Over  the  land  is  felt  a  sudden  pause. 
As  night  and  day  those  ruthless  bands  around 
The  watch  of  love  is  kept: — a  traivcc  which  awes 
The  thoughts  of  men  with  hope — as  when  the  sound 
Of  whirlwind,  whose  fierce  blasts  the  waves  and 

clouds  confound. 
Dies  suddenly,  the  mariner  in  fear 
Feels  silence  sink  upon  his  heart — thus  bound. 
The  conqueror's  pause,  and  oh !  may  freemen  ne'er 
Clasp  the  relentless  knees  of  Dread,  the  murderer  ! 

XXVIII. 

"If  blood  be  shed,  'tis  but  a  change  and  choice 
Of  bonds, — slavery  to  cowardice 
A  wrcti-hed  fall  ! — U])lirt  thy  charmed  voice, 
I'our  on  those  evil  men  the  love  that  lies 
Hovering  within  tliose  spirit-soothing  eyes — 
Arise,  my  iiiend,  farewell !'' — As  thus  he  spake, 
From  the  green  earth  lightly  I  did  arise, 
As  one  out  of  dim  dreams  that  doth  awake. 
And  looked  njjon  the  depth  of  that  reposing  lake. 

XXIX. 

I  saw  mj'  countenance  reflected  there  ; — 
And  then  my  yoiuh  full  on  me  like  a  wind 
Descending  on  still  waters — my  thin  hair 
Was  prematurely  gray,  my  face  was  lined 
With  channels,  such  as  suflcring  leaves  behind, 
]\'ot  age;  my  brow  was  pale,  but  in  my  cheek 
And  li|)s  a  flush  of  gnawing  fire  did  find     [speak 
Their  food  and  dwelling;  though  mine  eyes  might 
A  subtle  mind  and  strongwilhhiaframc  thus  weak. 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


87 


XXX. 

And  thoiiijh  their  lustre  now  was  spent  ami  faded, 
Yet  ill  my  hollow  looks  and  withered  mien 
The  likeness  of  a  shape  for  which  was  braided 
The  brightest  woof  of  genius,  still  was  seen — 
One  who,  methought,  had  gone  from  the  world's 
And  left  it  vacant — 'twas  her  lover's  face —  [scene, 
It  might  resemble  her — it  once  had  been 
The  min-or  of  her  thoughts,  and  still  the  grace 
Wliich  her  mind's  shadow  cast,  left  there  a  linger- 
ing trace. 

XXXI. 

What  then  was  \1   Shv  slumbered  with  the  dead. 
Glorv  and  joy  and  peace,  had  come  and  gone. 
Doth  the  cloud  peri';h,  when  the  beams  are  fled, 
Which  steeped  its  skirts  in  gold  !  or  dark,  and  lone. 
Doth  it  not  through  the  pattis  of  night  unknown. 
On  outspread  wings  of  its  own  wind  upborne 
Pour  rain  upon  the  earth  ?   the  stars  are  shown, 
When  the  cold  moon  sharpens  her  silver  horn 
Lender  the  sea,  and  make  the  wide  night  not  forlorn, 

XXXII. 

Strengthened  in  heart,  yet  sad,  that  aged  man 
I  left,  with  uiterchange  of  looks  and  tears. 
And  lingering  speech,  and  to  the  Camp  began 
Mv  way.  O'er  many  a  mountain  chain  which  rears 
Its  hundred  crests  aloft,  my  spirit  bears 
Mv  frame ;  o'er  many  a  dale  and  many  a  moor. 
And  gaily  now  me  seems  serene  earth  wears 
The  bloomy  spring's  star-bright  investiture, 
A  vision  which  aught  sad  from  sadness  luightallure. 

XXXIII. 

My  powers  revived  within  me,  and  I  went 
As  one  whom  winds  waft  o'er  the  bending  grass, 
Through  many  a  vale  of  that  broad  continent. 
At  night  when  I  reposed,  fair  dreams  did  pass 
Before  my  pillow ; — my  own  Cythna  was 
Not  like  a  child  of  death,  among  them  ever; 
Wiien  I  arose  from  rest,  a  woful  mass 
That  gentlest  sleep  seemed  from  my  life  to  sever, 

As  if  the  lightofyouth  werenotwithdrawn  forever. 
^  XXXIV. 

Aye,  as  I  went,  that  maiden,  who  had  reared 
The  torch  of  Truth  afar,  of  whose  high  deeds 
The  Hermit  in  his  pilgrimage  had  heard,    [feeds 
Haunted   my  thoughts. — Ah,  Hope  its  siclcncss 
With  whatsoe'er  it  finds,  or  flowers  or  weeds ! 
Could  she  be  Cythna  ? — Was  that  corpse  a  shade 
Such   as  self   torturing  thought  from    madness 

breeds  ] 
Why  was  this  hope  not  torture  T  yet  it  made 

A  light  aroimd  my  steps  which  would  not  ever  fade. 

CAXTO  V. 
I. 
OvEn  the  utmost  hill  at  length  I  sped, 
A  snowy  steep: — the  moon  was  hanging  low 
Over  the  Asian  mountains,  and  outspread 
The  plain,  the  City,  and  the  Camp,  below. 
Skirted  the  midnight  Ocean's  glimmerin'j;'  flow, 
The  City's  moon-lit  spires  and  myriad  lanij)s, 
Like  stars  in  a  sublunar  sky  did  glow. 
And  fires  blazed  far  amid  the  scattered  camps, 
Like  springs  of  flame,  wliich  burst  where'er  swift 
Earthquake  stamps. 


All  slept  but  those  in  watchful  arms  who  stood, 
And  those  who  sate  tending  the  beacon's  light, 
And  the  few  sounds  from  that  vast  multitude 
Made  silence  more  profound — Oh,  what  a  might 
Of  human  thought  was  cradled  in  that  night! 
How  many  hearts  impenetrably  veiled 
Beat  underneath  its  shade  what  secret  fight, 
Evil  and  good,  in  woven  passions  mailed, 

Waged    through  that    silent  throng,  a  war    that 
never  failed! 

III. 
And  now  the  Power  of  Gooil  held  victory, 
So,  through  the  labyrinth  of  many  a  tent, 
Among  the  silent  millions  who  did  lie 
In  innocent  sleep,  exultingly  I  went ; 
The  moon  had  left  Heaven  desert  now,  but  lent 
From  eastern  morn  the  first  faint'  lustre  showed 
An  armed  youth — over  his  spear  he  bent 
His  downward  flice. — "  A  friend  !"  I  cried  aloud, 

And  quickly  common  hopes  made  freemen  under- 
stood. 

IV. 

I  sate  beside  him  while  the  morning  beam 
Crept  slowly  over  Heaven,  and  talked  with  liim 
Of  those  immortal  hopes,  a  glorious  theme  ! 
Which  led  us  forth,  until  the  stars  grew  dim : 
And  all  the  while,  methought,  his  voice  did  swim, 
As  if  it  drowned  in  remembrance  were 
Of  thoughts  which  make  the  moist  eyes  overbrim : 
At  last,  when  dayhght  'gan  to  fill  the  air. 
He  looked  on  me,  and  cried  m  wonder,  <'  Thou  art 
here !" 

V. 

Then,  suddenly,  I  knew  it  was  the  youth 
In  whom  its  earhest  hopes  my  spirit  found ; 
But  envious  tongues  had  stained  his  spotless  truth, 
And  thoughtless  pride  his  love  in  silence  bound. 
And  shame  and  sorrow  mine  in  toils  had  wound. 
Whilst  he  was  innocent,  and  I  deluded. 
The  truth  now  came  upon  me,  on  the  ground 
Tears  of  repenting  joy,  which  fast  intruded. 
Fell  fast,  and   o'er  its  peace  our  minghng  spirits 
brooded. 

TI. 

Thus,  while  with  rapi<l  lips  and  earnest  eyes 
We  talked,  a  sound  of  sweeping  conflict  spread. 
As  from  the  earth  did  suddenly  arise; 
From  every  tent,  roused  by  that  clamour  dread. 
Our  bands  outsprung  and  seized  their  arms ;  we  sped 
Towards  the  sound  :  our  tribes  were  gathering  for. 
Those  saniruine  slaves  amid  ten  thousand  dead 
Stabbed  in  their  sleep,  trampled  in  treacherous  war. 
The   gentle  hearts  whose   power  their  lives  had 
sought  to  spare. 

TIT. 

liikc  rabid  snakes,  that  sting  some  gentle  child 
Who  brimis  them  food,  when  winter  false  and  fair 
Allures  them  forth  with  its  cold  smiles,  so  wild 
The}-  rage  among  the  camp ; — they  overbear 
The  patriot  hosts — confusion,  then  despair 
Descends  like  nii,'lit — when  "  Laon  !"  one  did  crv'  : 
Like  a  ghostbright  from  Heaven  that  shout  did  scare 
The  slaves,  and,  wiilcniiig  through  the  vaulted  sky. 
Seemed  sent  from  Earth  to  Heaven  in  sign  of  victory. 


88 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


In  siiddon  panic  those  false  niunlcrcrs  fled, 
Like  insect  tribes  before  the  nortiiern  gale : 
But,  swifter  still,  our  hosts  encompassed 
Their  shattered  ranks,  and  in  a  eraff.ay  vale, 
Where  even  their  fierce  despair  might  nought  avail. 
Hemmed  them  around ! — and  then  revenge  and 
Made  the  high  virtue  of  the  patriots  fail :       [fear 
One  pointed  on  his  foe  the  mortal  sjjcar — 
I  rushed  before  its  point,  and  cried,  "  Forbear,  for- 
bear!" 

IX. 

The  spear  transfixed  my  arm  that  was  uplifted 
In  swift  expostulation,  and  tlie  blood  [gifted 

Gushed  round  its  point :  I  smiled,  and — "  Oh !  thou 
With  eloquence  which  shall  not  be  withstood, 
Flow  thus  !" — I  cried  in  joy,  "  thou  vital  flood. 
Until  my  heart  be  dry,  ere  thus  the  cause 
For  which  thou  wcrt  aught  worthy  be  subdued — 
Ah,    ye    are    pale, — ye    weep, — your    passions 
pause, — 
'Tis  well !  ye  feel  the  truth  of  love's  benignant  laws. 

X. 

"  Soldiers,  our  brethren  and  our  friends  arc  slain. 
Ye  murdered  them,  I  think,  as  they  did  sleep! 
Alas,  what  have  ye  done  ?     The  slightest  pain 
Which  ye  might  sulTer,  there  were  eyes  to  weep ; 
But  ye  have  quenched  them — there  were  smiles 

to  steep 
Your  hearts  in  balm,  but  they  are  lost  in  wo ; 
And  those  whom  love  did  set  his  watch  to  keep 
Around  your  tents  truth's  freedom  to  bestow. 
Ye  stabbed  as  they  did  sleep — but  they  forgive  ye 

now. 

XT. 

"  O  wherefore  should  ill  ever  flow  from  ill. 
And  pain  still  keener  pain  for  ever  breed  ] 
We  all  arc  brethren — even  the  slaves  who  lull 
For  hire,  are  men ;  and  to  avenge  misdeed 
On  tlic  misdoer,  doth  but  Misery  feed 
Witli  her  own  broken  heart !  O  Earth,  O  Heaven! 
And  thou,  dreail  Nature,  which  to  every  deed 
And  all  that  lives,  or  is  to  be,  hath  given,  [given. 
Even  as  to  thee  have  these  done  ill,  and  are  for- 

XII. 

"Join  then  your  hands  and  hearts,  and  let  the  past 
Be  as  a  grave  which  gives  not  up  its  dead 
To  evil  thoughts." — A  film  then  overcast 
My  sense  with  dimness,  for  the  wound,  which  bled 
Freshly,  swift  shadows  o'er  mine  eyes  had  shed. 
When  I  awoke,  I  lay  'mid  friends  and  foes, 
And  earnest  countenances  on  mo  shed 
The  light  of  questioning  looks,  whilst  one  did  close 
My  wound  with  balmiest  herbs,  and  soothed  me  to 
repose ; 

XIII.  ' 

And  one,  whose  spearhad  pierced  mc,  leaned  beside 
With  (juivering  lips  and  humid  eyes; — and  all 
Seemed  like  some  brothers  on  a  journey  wide 
Gone  forth,  whom  now  strange  meeting  did  befall 
In  a  strange  land,  round  one  whom  they  might  call 
Their  friend,  their  chief,  tlwir  fither,  for  assay 
Of  [)eril,  which  had  saved  them  from  the  thrall 
Of  death,  now  sullcring.     'J'hus  the  vast  array 
Of  those  fraternal  bands  were  reconciled  that  day. 


XIT. 

Lifting  the  thunder  of  their  acclamation 
Towards  the  City,  then  the  multitude. 
And  I  among  them,  went  in  joy — a  nation 
Made  free  by  love  ; — a  mighty  brotherhood 
Linked  by  a  jealous  interchange  of  good; 
A  glorious  pageant,  more  magnificent 
Than  kinglj-  slaves,  arrayed  in  gold  and  blood; 
When  they  return  from  carnage,  and  are  sent 
In  triumph  bright  beneath  the  populous  battlement. 

XV. 

Afar,  the  City  walls  were  thronged  on  high, 
And  myriads  on  each  giddy  turret  clung, 
And  to  each  spire  far  lessening  in  the  sky, 
Bright  pennons  on  the  idle  winds  were  hung; 
As  we  approached,  a  shout  of  joyancc  sprung 
At  once  from  all  the  crowd,  as  if  the  vast 
And  ))eopled  Earth  its  lioundless  skies  among 
The  sudilen  clamour  of  dehght  had  cast. 
When  fi-om  before  its  face  some  general  wreck 
had  jjast. 

XTI. 

Our  armies  through  the  City's  hundred  gates 
Were  poured,  lilic  brooks  which  to  the  rocky  lair 
Of  some  deep  lake,  whose  silence  them  awaits, 
Tlirong  from  the  mountains  when  the  storms  are 

there ; 
And,  as  we  passed  through  the  calm  sunny  air, 
A  thousand  flower-inwoven  crowns  were  shed, 
The  token  flowers  of  truth  and  freedom  fair. 
And  fairest  hands  bound  thcna  on  many  a  head. 

Those  angels  of  love's  heaven,  that  over  all  was 
spread. 

xvir. 
I  trod  as  one  tranced  in  some  rapturous  vision : 
Those  bloody  bands  so  lately  reconciled. 
Were,  ever  as  they  went,  by  the  contrition 
Of  anger  turned  to  love  from  ill  beguiled, 
And  every  one  on  them  more  gently  smiled. 
Because  they  had  done  evil : — the  sweet  awe 
Of  such  mild  looks  made  their  own  hearts  grow 
And  did  with  soft  attraction  ever  draw         [mild, 

Their  spirits  to  the  love  of  freedom's  equal  law. 

XVIII. 

And  they,  and  all,  in  one  loud  symphony 
My  name  with  Liberty  commingling,  lifted, 
"  The  friend  and  the  preserver  of  the  free  ! 
The  parent  of  this  joy  !"  and  fair  eyes,  gifted 
With  feelings  caught  from  one  who  had  uplifted 
The  light  of  a  trreat  spirit,  round  me  shone ; 
And  all  the  shajjes  of  this  grand  scenery  shifted 
Like  restless  clouds  before  the  steadfast  sun, — 
Where  was  that  Maid  ?  I  asked,  but  it  was  known 
of  none. 

XIX. 

Laone  w,as  the  name  her  love  had  chosen, 
For  she  was  nameless,  and  her  birth  none  knew : 
Where  was  Laone  now  1 — The  words  wore  frozen 
Within  my  lips  with  fear;  but  to  sulxlue 
Such  dreadful  hope,  to  my  great  task  was  due, 
And  when  at  length  one  brought  rejily,  that  she 
To-morrow  would  a])pear,  I  then  withdrew 
To  jiulge  what  need  for  that  great  throng  might  he. 
For  now  the  stars  came  thick  over  the  twilight  sea. 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


89 


Yet  need  was  none  for  rest  or  food  to  eare, 
Even  though  that  muUitude  was  passing  great, 
Sinee  each  one  for  the  otlier  did  prepare 
All  kindly  sue.eoiir — Therefore  to  the  gate 
Of  the  Imperial  House,  now  desolate, 
I  passed,  and  there  was  found  aghast,  alone, 
The  fallen  Tyrant  !—Silcnl!y  he  sale 
U[)on  the  footstool  of  his  golden  throne. 

Which,  starred  with  sunny  gems,  in  its  own  lustre 
shone. 

x\i. 
Alone,  but  for  one  rliild,  who  led  before  him 
A  graceful  dance  :  the  only  living  thing 
Of  all  the  crowd,  which  thither  to  adore  him 
Flocked  yesterday,  who  solace  sought  to  bring 
In  his  abandonment ! — She  knew  the  King 
Had  praised  her  dance  of  yore,  and  now  she  wove 
Its  circles,  aye  weeping  and  inurmuring 
'Mid  her  sad  task  of  unregarded  love. 

That  to  no  smiles  it  might  his  speechless  sadness 
move. 

XXTI. 

She  fled  to  him,  and  wildly  clasped  his  feet 
When  human  steps  were  heard : — he  moved  nor 

spoke. 
Nor  changed  his  hue,  nor  raised  his  looks  to  meet 
The  gaze  of  strangers. — Our  loud  entrance  woke 
The  echoes  of  the  hall,  which  circling  broke 
The  calm  of  its  recesses, — like  a  tomb 
Its  sculptured  walls  vacantly  to  the  stroke 
Of  footfalls  answered,  and  the  twilight's  gloom 

Lay  like  a  charnel's  mist  within  the  radiant  dome. 
xxiri. 
The  little  child  stood  up  when  we  came  nigh ; 
Her  lips  and  cheeks  seemed  very  pale  and  wan, 
But  on  her  forehead  and  within  her  eye 
Lay  beauty,  which  makes  hearts  that  feed  thereon 
Sick  with  excess  of  sweetness ; — on  the  throne 
She  leaned.  The  King,  with  gathered  brow  and  lips 
Wreathed  by  long  scorn,  did  iidy  sneer  and  trown 
With  hue  like  that  when  some  great  painter  dips 

His  pencil  in  the  gloom  of  earthquake  and  eclipse. 

XXIV. 

She  stood  beside  him  like  a  rainbow  braided 
Within  some  storm,  when  scarce  its  shadows  vast 
From  the  blue  paths  of  the  swift  sun  have  faded. 
A  sweet  and  solemn  smile,  like  Cythna's,  cast 
One  moment's  light,  which  made  my  heart  beat  fast 
O'er  that  child's  parted  lips — a  gleam  of  bliss, 
A  shade  of  vanished  days, — as  the  tears  ])ast 
Which  wrapt  it,  even  as  with  a  f  dher's  kiss 
I  pressed  those  softest  eyes  in  trembling  tenderness. 


The  sceptred  wretch  then  from  that  solitude 
I  drew,  and  of  his  change  compassionate. 
With  words  of  sadness  soothed  his  rugged  mood. 
But  he,  while  pride  and  fear  held  deep  debate, 
With  sullen  gude  of  ill-dissembled  hate 
Glared  on  me  as  a  toothless  snake  might  glare: 
Pity,  not  scorn,  I  felt,  though  desolate 
The  desolator  now,  and  unaware 
The  curses  which  he  mocked  had  caught  lum  by 
the  hair. 

12 


I  led  him  fortli  from  that  which  now  might  seem 

A  gorgeous  grave :  through  portals  sculptured  deep 

With  imagery  beautiful  as  dream 

W^e  went,  and  left  the  shades  which  tend  on  sleep 

Over  its  unregarded  gold  to  keep 

Their  silent  watch. — The  diikl  trod  faintingly, 

And,  as  she  went,  the  tears  which  she  did  weep 

Glanced  in  the  starlight;  wildered  seemed  she. 

And  when  I  spake,  for  sobs  she  could  not  answer 
me. 

xxvir. 
At  last  the  tyrant  cried  "She  hungers,  slave! 
Stab  her,  or  give  her  bread!" — It  was  a  tone 
Such  as  sick  fancies  in  a  new-made  grave 
Might  hear.    I  trembled,  for  the  truth  was  known. 
He  with  this  child  had  thus  been  left  alone. 
And  neither  had  gone  forth  for  food, — but  he 
In  mingled  pride  and  awe  cowered  near  his  throne, 
And  she,  a  nursling  of  captivity. 

Knew  nought  beyond  those  walls,  nor  what  such 
change  might  be. 

XXVIII. 

And  he  was  troulded  at  a  charm  withdrawn 
Thus  suddenly ;  that  sceptres  ruled  no  more — 
That  even  from  gold  the  dreadful  strength  was  gone 
Which  once  made  all  things  subject  to  its  power — 
Such  wonder  seized  him,  as  if  hour  by  hour 
The  past  had  come  again ;  and  the  swift  fall 
Of  one  so  great  and  terrible  of  yore 
To  desolatcness,  in  the  hearts  of  all 
Like  wonder  stirred,  who  saw  such  awful  change 
befall. 

XXIX 

A  mighty  crowd,  such  as  the  wide  land  pours 
Once  in  a  thousand  years,  now  gathered. round 
The  fallen  tyrant ; — like  the  rush  of  showers 
Of  hail  in  spring,  pattering  along  the  ground. 
Their  many  footsteps  fell,  else  came  no  sound 
From  the  wide  multitude-,  that  lonely  man 
Then  knew  the  burden  of  his  change,  and  found. 
Concealing  in  the  dust  his  visage  wan. 
Refuge  from  the  keen  looks  which  through  his  bosom 
ran. 

XXX. 

And  he  was  faint  withal.     I  sate  beside  him 
Upon  the  earth,  and  took  that  child  so  fair 
From  his  weak  arms,  that  ill  might  none  betide  him 
Or  her; — when  food  was  brought  to  them,  her 
To  his  averted  lips  the  child  did  bear ;         [share 
But  when  she  saw  he  had  enough,  she  ate 
And  wept  the  while ; — the  lonely  man's  despair 
Hanger  then  overcame,  and  of  his  state 
Forgetful,  on  the  dust  as  in  a  trance  he  sate. 

XXXI. 

Slowly  .the  silence  of  the  multitudes 
Past,  as  when  far  is  heard  in  some  lone  dell 
The  gathering  of  a  wind  among  the  woods — 
And  he  is  fallen!  they  cry;  he  who  did  dwell 
liike  famine  or  the  plague,  or  aught  more  fell, 
Among  our  homes,  is  fallen  !  the  mUrderer 
Who  slaked  his  thirsting  soul  as  from  a  well 
Of  blood  and  tears  with  ruin  !   He  is  here  ! 
Sunk  in  a  gulf  of  scorn  from  which  none  may  him 
rear ! 

h2 


90 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


IXXII. 

Thrnwashcaril-IIc\vhoju<lp:o(11cthiinlicbrouirlit 
To  jiultrmiMit !  Blood  for  Mood  riios  from  the  soil 
On  wliich  his  crimes  have  deep  pollution  wrouglit ! 
Shall  Otliman  only  unavenged  despoil? 
Shall  liiev,  who  hy  tlie  stress  of  grinding  toil 
Wrest  from  the  unwilling  earth  his  luxuries, 
Perish  for  erime,  while  his  foul  blood  may  boil, 
Or  creep  within  his  veins  at  will  ]      Arise  ! 
And  to  high  justice  make  her  chosen  sacrifice. 

XXXIII. 

"What  do  ye  seek  ?  what  fear  ye  !"  then  I  cried, 
Suddenly  starting  forth,  "  that  ye  should  shed 
The  blood  of  Othman — if  your  hearts  are  tried 
In  the  true  love  of  freedom,  cease  to  dread 
This  one  poor  lonely  mail — beneath  Heaven  shed 
In  purest  light  above  us  all,  through  earth. 
Maternal  earth,  who  doth  her  sweet  smiles  spread 
For  all,  let  him  go  free ;  until  the  worth 
Of  human  nature  win  from  these  a  second  birth. 

XXXIV. 

«  What  call  ye  justice  ?    Is  there  one  who  ne'er 
In  secret  thought  has  wished  another's  ill  1 — 
Are  ye  all  j)ure  ?   Let  those  stand  forth  who  hear, 
And  tremble  not     Shall  they  insult  and  kill. 
If  such  they  be  ?   their  mild  eyes  can  they  fiU 
With  the  false  anger  of  the  hypocrite  ? 
Alas,  such  were  not  pure — the  chastened  will 
Of  virtue  sees  that  justice  is  the  light 
Of  love,  and  not  revenge,  and  terror  and  despite." 

XXXV. 

The  murmur  of  the  people,  slowly  dying. 
Paused  as  I  spake  ;  then  those  who  near  mc  were. 
Cast  gentle  looks  where  the  lone  man  was  lying 
Shrouding  his  head,  which  now  that  infant  fair 
Clasped  on  her  laj)  in  silence ; — through  the  air 
Sobs  were  then  heard,  and  many  kissed  my  feet 
In  ijity's  madness,  and,  to  the  despair 
Of  him  whom  late  they  cursed,  a  solace  sweet 
His  very  victims  brought — soft  looks  and  speeches 

meet. 

xxxvr. 
Then  to  a  home,  for  his  repose  assigned, 
Accompanied  by  the  still  throng  he  went 
In  silence,  where,  to  soothe  his  rankling  mind. 
Some  likeness  of  his  ancient  state  was  lent ; 
And,  if  his  heart  could  have  been  innocent 
As  those  who  pardoned  him,  he  might  have  ended 
His  da  vs  in  peace  ;  but  his  straight  lips  were  bent. 
Men  said,  into  a  smile  which  guile  portended, 
A  sight  with  which  that  child  like  hope  with  fear 

was  blended. 

XXXVII. 

'Twas  midnight  now,  the  eve  of  that  great  day. 
Whereon  the  many  nations  at  whose  call 
The  chains  of  earth  like  mist  melted  away, 
Decreed  to  hold  a  sacred  Festival, 
A  rite  to  attest  the  eciuality  of  all 
M'lio  live.     So  to  their  homes,  to  dream  or  wake 
All  went.     The  sleepless  silence  did  recall 
Laone  to  my  thoughts,  with  hopes  that  make 
The  flood  receile  from  which  their  thirst  they  seek 
to  slake. 


XXXTIII. 

The   dawn   flowed   forth,  and    from    its   puri)lc 

fountains 
I  drank  those  hopes  which  make  the  spirit  quail, 
As  to  the  plain  between  the  misty  mountains 
And  the  great  City,  with  a  countenance  j)ale 
I  went : — it  was  a  sight  which  might  avail 
I'o  make  men  weep  exulting  tears,  for  whom 
Now  first  from  human  power  the  reverend  veil 
Was  torn,  to  sec  Earth  from  her  general  womb 
Pour    forth    her    swarming   sons    to    a   fraternal 

doom : 

XXXIX. 

To  see,  far  glancing  in  the  misty  morning, 
The  signs  of  that  innumerable  host, 
To  hear  one  sound  of  many  made,  the  warning 
Of  Earth  to  Heaven  from  its  free  children  tost. 
While  the  eternal  hills,  and  the  sea  lost 
In  wavering  light,  and,  starring  the  blue  sky 
The  city's  myriad  sjjires  of  gold,  almost 
With  human  joy  made  mute  society 
Its  witnesses  with  men  who  must  hereafter  be. 

XL. 

To  see,  like  some  vast  island  from  the  Ocean, 
The  Altar  of  the  Federation  rear 
Its  i)ile  i'thc  midst ;  a  work,  which  the  devotion 
Of  millions  in  one  night  created  there. 
Sudden,  as  when  the  inoonrise  makes  appear 
Strange  clouds  in  the  c;ist;  a  marble  ])yrainid 
Distinct  with  steps:  that. mighty  shape  did  wear 
The  light  of  genius ;  its  still  shadow  hid 
Far  shijis :  to  know  its  height  the  morning  mists 
forbid  ! 

XLI. 

To  hear  the  restless  multitudes  for  ever 
Around  the  base  of  that  great  Altar  flow, 
As  on  some  mountain  islet  burst  and  shiver 
Atlantic  waves  ;  and  solemnly  and  slow 
As  the  wind  bore  that  tumult  to  and  fro. 
To  feel  the  dreamlike  music,  which  did  swim 
Like  beams   through   floating  clouds  on  waves 
Falling  in  pauses  from  that  Altar  dim        [below, 
As   silver-sounding   tongues   breathed   an   aerial 
hymn. 

XLII. 

To  hear,  to  see,  to  live,  was  on  that  morn 
lyctliean  joy  !  so  that  all  those  assemliled 
Cast  otV  their  memories  of  the  past  outworn : 
Two  only  bosoms  with  their  own  life  trembled. 
And  mine  was  one, — and  we  had  both  dissembled  ; 
So  with  a  beating  heart  I  went,  and  one, 
Who  having  nnich,  covets  yet  more,  resembled; 
A  lost  and  dear  possession,  which  not  won. 
He  walks  in  lonely  gloom  beneath  the  noonday 
sun. 

X  I.I  II. 

To  the  great  Pyramid  1  came :  its  stair 
With  female  quires  was  thronged  :  the  loveliest 
Among  the  free,  grou])ed  with  its  sculj)tures  rare. 
As  I  a])]iroached,  the  morning's  golden  mist, 
Which  now  the  wonder-stricken  breezes  kist 
With  their  cokl  lips,  fled,  and  the  smnmit  shone 
Like  Athos  seen  from  Samothracia,  drest 
In  earliest  liffht  by  vintagers,  and  one 
Sate  there,  a  female  shape  upon  an  ivory  throne. 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


91 


XI. IV. 

A  Form  most  like  the  iiiinginod  habitant 
Of  silver  exhalations  sprung  from  dawn, 
B  V  winds  which  feed  on  sunrise  woven,  to  enchant 
Tlic  faiths  of  men  :  all  mortal  eyes  were  drawn, 
As  fomished  mariners  through  strange  seas  gone, 
Gaze  on  a  burning  watch-tower,  by  the  light 
Of  those  diviaest  lineaments — alone      [fair  sight 
With  thoughts  which  none  couhl  share,  trom  that 
I  turned  in  sickness,  for  a  veil  shrouded  her  coun- 
tenance bright. 

XLV. 

And,  neitlier  did  I  hear  the  acclamations 
Which,  from  brief  silence  bursting,  tilled  the  air. 
With  her  strange  name  and  mine,  from  all  the 

nations 
Which  we,  they  said,  in  strength  had  gathered  there 
From  the  sleep  of  bondage  ;  nor  the  vision  fair 
Of  that  bright  pageantry  beheld, — but  blind 
And  silent,  as  a  breathing  corpse  did  fare, 
Leaning  upon  my  friend,  till,  like  a  wind     [mind. 
To  fevered  cheeks,  a  voice  flowed  o'er  my  troubled 

XLVI. 

Like  music  of  some  minstrel  heavenly-gifted. 
To  one  whom  fiends  enthral,  this  voice  to  me ; 
Scarce  did  I  wish  her  veil  to  be  uplifted, 
I  was  so  calm  and  joyous. — I  could  see 
The  platform  where  we  stood,  the  statues  three 
Which  kept  their  marble  watch  on  that  high  shrine, 
The  multitudes,  the  mountains,  and  the  sea ; 
As  when  eclipse  hath  passed,  things  sudden  shine 
To  men's  astonished  eyes  most  clear  and  crystalline. 

XLTir. 

At  first  Laone  spoke  most  tremulously : 
But  soon  her  voice  that  calmness  which  it  shed 
Gathered,  and — "  Thou  art  whom  I  sought  to  see, 
And  thou  art  our  first  votary  here,"  she  said  : 
"  I  had  a  dear  friend  once,  hut  he  is  dead ! — ■ 
And  of  all  those  on  the  wide  earth  who  breathe, 
Thou  dost  resemble  him  alone — I  spread 
This  veil  between  us  two,  that  thou  beneath 

Should'st  image  one  who  may  have  been  long  lost 
in  death. 

xLviri. 
"  For  this  wilt  thou  not  henceforth  pardon  me  1 
Yes,  but  those  joys  which  silence  well  requite 
Forl)id  reply  :  why  men  have  chosen  me 
To  be  the  Priestess  of  this  holiest  rite 
I  scarcely  know,  but  that  the  floods  of  light 
Which  flow  over  the  world,  have  borne  me  hither 
To  meet  thee,  long  lost  dear ;  and  now  unite 
Thine  hand  with  mine,  and  may  all  comfort  wither 

From  both  the  hearts  whose  pulse  in  joy  now  beats 
together, 

XLIX. 

"  If  our  own  will  as  others'  law  we  bind, 
If  the  foul  worship  trampled  here  we  fear; 
If  as  ourselves  we  oease  to  love  our  kind  !" — 
She   paused,  and  pointed   upwards — sculptured 

there 
Three  shapes  around  her  ivory  throne  appear ; 
One  was  a  giant,  like  a  child  asleep 
On  a  loose  rock,  whose  grasp  crushed,  as  it  were 
In  dream,  sceptres  and  crowns  ;  and  one  did  kei-p 
Its  watchful  eyes  in  doubt  whether  to  smile  or  weep ; 


A  Woman  sitting  on  the  sculjjtured  disk 
Of  the  broad  earth,  and  feeding  from  one  breast 
A  human  babe  and  a  young  basilisk ; 
Her  looks  were  sweet  as  Heaven's  when  loveliest 
In  Autunni  eves — Tiie  third  Image  was  drest 
In  wliite  wings  swift  as  clouds  in  winter  skies. 
Beneath  his  ieet,  'mongst  ghastliest  forms,  rcprest 
Lay  Faith,  an  obscene  worm,  who  sought  to  rise. 
While  calmly  on  the  Sun  he  turned  his  diamond 
eyes. 

LI. 

Beside  that  Image  then  I  sate,  while  she 
Stood,  'mid  the  throngs  which  ever  ebbed  and 
Like  light  annd  the  shadows  of  the  sea     [flowed 
C!ast  from  one  cloudless  star,  and  on  the  crowd 
That    touch,    which    none    who    feels    forgets, 

bestowed ; 
And  whilst  the  sun  returned  the  steadfast  gaze 
Of  the  great  Image  as  o'er  Heaven  it  glode, 
That  rite  had  place ;  it  ceased  when  sunset's  blaze 
Burned  o'er  the  isles;  all  stood  in  joy  and  deep 

amaze ; 

When  in  the  silence  of  all  spirits  there 
Laone's  voice  was  felt,  and  through  the  air 
Her  thrilling  gestures  spoke,  most  eloquently  fair. 

L 
"  Calm  art  thou  <as  yon  sunset !  swift  and  strong 
As  new-fledged  Eagles,  beautiful  and  young. 
That  float  among  the  blinding  beams  of  morning ; 
And  underneath  thy  feet  writhe  Faith,  and  Folly, 
Custom,  and  Hell,  and  mortal  Melancholy — 
Hark !  the  Earth  starts  to  hear  the  mighty  warning 
Of  thy  voice  sublime  and  holy  ; 
Its  free  spirits  here  assembled, 
See  thee,  feel  thee,  know  thee  now  : 
To  thy  voice  their  hearts  have  trembled, 
Like  ten  thousand  clouds  which  llow 
With  one  wide  wind  as  it  flies ! 
Wisdom  !   thy  irresistible  children  rise 
To  hail  thee,  and  the  elements  they  chain 
And  their  own  will  to  swell  the  glory  of  thy  train. 

2. 

"  0  Spiiit  vast  and  deep  as  Xight  and  Heaven  ! 
Mother  and  soul  of  all  to  which  is  given 
The  light  of  life,  the  loveliness  of  being, 
Lo !  thou  dost  reascend  the  human  heart, 
Thy  throne  of  power,  almighty  as  thou  wert. 
In  dreams  of  Poets  old  grown  pale  by  seeing 
The  shade  of  thee  : — now,  millions  start 
To  feel  thy  lightnings  through  them  burning: 
Nature,  or  God,  or  Love,  or  Pleasure, 
Or  Sympathy,  the  sad  tears  turning 
To  mutual  smiles,  a  drainless  treasure, 
Descends  amidst  us ; — Scorn  and  Hate, 
Kevenge  and  Sellishness,  are  desolate 
A  hundred  nations  swear  that  there  shall  be 
Pity  and  Peace  and  Love,  among  the  good  and  free  ! 

3. 

"  Eldest  of  things,  divine  Ecinality  ! 
Wisdom  and  Love  are  but  the  slaves  of  thee, 
The  Angels  of  thy  sway,  who  pour  around  thee 
Treasures  from  all  the  cells  of  human  tliought. 


92 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


And  from  the  Stars,  and  from  the  Orean  brought, 
And  the  last  living  heart  wliose  beatings  hound  thee ! 
The  powerful  and  the  wise  had  sought 
Thy  coming;  thou  in  light  descending 
O'er  the  wide  land  which  is  thine  own, 
Like  the  spring  whose  breath  is  blending 
All  blasts  of  fragrance  into  one, 
Comest  upon  the  jjaths  of  men  ! 
Earth  bares  her  general  bosom  to  thy  ken 
And  all  her  children  here  in  glory  meet 
To  feed  upon  thy  smiles,  and  clasp  thy  sacred  feet. 

4. 
"  ]\Iy  brethren,  we  are  free !  the  plains  and  moun- 
tains. 
The  gray  sea-shore,  the  forests,  and  the  fountains. 
Are  haunts  of  happiest  dwellers ;  man  and  woman, 
Their  common  bondage  burst,  may  freely  borrow 
From  lawless  love  a  solace  for  their  sorrow ! 
For  oft  we  still  must  weep,  since  we  are  human. 
A  stormy  night's  serencst  morrow, 
Whose  showers  arc  pity's  gentle  tears, 
M'^hose  clouds  are  smiles  of  those  that  die 
Like  infants,  without  hopes  or  fears, 
And  whose  beams  are  joys  that  lie, 
In  blended  hearts,  now  holds  dominion; 
The  dawn  of  mind,  which,  upwards  on  a  pinion 
Borne,  swift  as  sunrise,  far  illumines  space, 
And  clasps  this  barren  world   in  its  own  bright 
embrace ! 


"  ]\ty  brethren,  we  are  free !  the  fruits  are  glowing 
Beneath  the  stars,  and  the  night-winds  are  flowing 
O'er  the  ripe  corn,  the  birds  and  beasts  arc  dream- 
Never  again  may  blood  of  bird  or  beast        [ing — 
Stain  with  its  venomous  stream  a  human  feast, 
To  the  pure  skies  in  accusation  steaming; 
Avenging  poisons  shall  have  ceased 
To  feed  disease  and  fear  and  madness, 
The  dwellers  of  the  earth  and  air 
Shall  throng  around  our  steps  in  gladness, 
Seeking  their  food  or  refuge  there — 
Our  toil  from  thought  all  glorious  forms  shall  cull, 
To  make  this  earth,  our  home,  more  beautiful, 
And  Science,  and  her  sister  Poesy, 
Shall  clothe  in  light  the  fields  and  cities  of  the  free  ! 


«  Victory,  Victory  to  the  prostrate  nations ! 
Bear  witness.  Night,  and  ye,  mute  Constellations, 
Who  gaze  on  us  from  your  crystalline  cars! 
Thoughts  have  gone  forth  whose  powers  can  sleep 

no  more ! 
Victory  !  Victory  !  Earth's  remotest  shore. 
Regions  which  groan  beneath  the  Antarctic  stars, 
The  green  lands  cradled  in  the  roar 
Of  western  waves,  and  wildernesses 
Peopled  and  vast,  which  skirt  the  oceans 
Where  morning  dyes  her  golden  tresses, 
Shall  soon  partake  our  high  emotions: 
Kings  shall  turn  pale!    Almighty  Fear, 
The  Fiend-God,  when  our  charmed  name  he  hear. 
Shall  fade  like  shadow  from  his  thousand  fanes. 
While  Truth  with  Joy  enthroned   o'er    his   lost 
empire  reigns !" 


Ere  she  had  ceased,  the  mists  of  night  entwining 
Their  dim  woof,  floated  o'er  the  infinite  throng; 
She  like  a  spirit  through  the  darkness  shining. 
In  tones  whose  sweetness  silence  did  prolong. 
As  if  to  lingering  winds  thej'  did  belong, 
Poured  forth  her  inmost  soul :  a  passionate  speech 
With  wild  and  thrilling  pauses  woven  among, 
Which  whoso  heard,  wa-s  mute,  for  it  could  teach 
To  rapture  like  her  own  all  listening  hearts  to  reach. 

LIU. 

Her  voice  was  as  a  mountain  stream  which  sweeps 
The  withered  leaves  of  autumn  to  the  lake, 
And  in  some  deep  and  narrow  bay  then  sleeps 
In  the  shadow  of  the  shores ;  as  dead  leaves  wake 
Under  the  wave,  in  flowers  and  herbs  which  make 
Those  green  depths  beautiful  when  skies  are  blue, 
The  multitude  so  moveless  did  partake 
Such  living  change,  and  kindling  murmurs  flew 

As  o'er  that  speechless  calm  delight  and  wonder 
grew. 

Lir. 
Over  the  plain  the  throngs  were  scattered  then 
In  groups  around  the  fires,  which  from  the  sea 
Even  to  the  gorge  of  the  first  mountain  glen 
Blazed  wide  and  far  :  the  banquet  of  the  free 
Was  spread  beneath  many  a  dark  cypress  tree, 
Beneath  whose  spires,  which  swayed  in  the  red 
Reclining  as  they  ate,  of  Liberty,  [light 

And  Ho])c,  and  .Justice,  and  Laone's  name. 

Earth's  children  did  a  woof  of  happy  converse  frame. 

i-y. 

Their  feast  was  such  as  Earth,  the  general  mother. 
Pours  from  her  fairest  bosom,  when  she  smiles 
In  the  einbrace  of  Autumn  ; — to  each  other 
As  when  some  parent  fondly  reconciles 
Her  warring  children,  she  their  wTath  beguiles 
With  her  own  sustenance ;  they  relenting  weep  : 
Such  was  this  festival,  which  from  their  isles. 
And  continents,  and  winds,  and  oceans  deep. 
All  shapes  might  throng  to  share,  that  fly,  or  walk, 
or  creep. 

LVT. 

Might  share  in  peace  and  innocence,  for  gore 
Or  j)oison  none  this  festal  did  pollute. 
But  piled  on  high,  an  overflowing  store 
Of  pomegranates,  and  citrons,  fairest  fi'uit, 
Melons  and  dates,  and  figs,  and  many  a  root 
Sweet  and  sustaining,  and  bright  grapes  ere  yet 
Accursed  fire  their  mild  juice  could  transmute 
Info  a  mortal  bane,  and  brown  corn  set 
In  baskets ;  with  i>urc  streams  their  tliirsting  lips 
they  wet. 

LTII. 

Laone  had  descended  from  the  shrine. 
And  everv  deepest  look  and  holiest  mind 
Fed  on  her  form,  though  now  those  tones  divine 
Were  silent  as  she  jjast;  she  did  unwind 
Her  veil,  as  with  the  crowds  of  her  own  kind 
She  mixed  ;  some  im])ulse  made  my  he;nl  refrain 
From  seeking  her  tiiat  night,  so  I  reclined 
Amidst  a  grouj),  where  on  the  utmost  j)iain 
A  festal  watch-fire  burned  beside  the  dusky  main. 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


93 


LVIIt. 

And  jnyoiis  was  our  feast;  pathetic  talk, 
Ami  wit,  and  hannony  of  clioral  strains, 
Wliile  far  Orion  o'er  the  waves  did  walk 
That  flow  among  the  isles,  held  us  in  chains 
Of  sweet  captivity,  which  none  disdains 
Who  feels :  but,  when  his  zone  grew  dim  in  mist 
\\'hicli  clothes  the  Ocean's  bosom,  o'er  the  plains 
The  multitudes  went  homeward,  to  their  rest, 
Which  that  delightful  day  with  its  own  shadow  blest. 

CANTO  VL 
I. 

Beside  the  dimness  of  the  glimmering  sea, 
Weaving  swift  language  from  impassioned  themes, 
With  that  dear  friend  I  lingered,  who  to  me 
So  late  had  been  restored,  beneath  the  gleams 
Of  the  silver  stars :  and  ever  in  soft  dreams 
Of  future  love  and  peace  sweet  converse  lapt 
Our  willing  fancies,  till  the  pallid  beams 
Of  the  last  watch-fire  fell,  and  darkness  wrapt 

The  waves,  and  each  bright  chain  of  floating  fire 
was  snapt. 

11. 
And  tOl  we  came  even  to  the  City's  wall 
And  the  great  gate,  then,  none  knew  whence  or 
Disquiet  on  the  multitudes  did  fall ;  [why, 

And  first,  one  pale  and  breathless  past  us  by, 
And  stared,  and  spoke  not ;  then  with  piercing  cry 
A  troop  of  wild-eyed  women,  by  their  shrieks 
Of  their  own  terror  driven, — tumultuously 
Hither  and  thither  hurrying  with  pale  cheeks, 

Each  one    from    fear  unknown  a  sudden  refuge 
seeks — 

III. 
Then,  rallying  cries  of  ti-eason  and  of  danger 
Resounded :  and — "  They  come !  to  arms !  to  arms ! 
The  Tyrant  is  amongst  lis,  and  the  stranger 
Comes  to  enslave  us  in  his  name  !  to  arms  I" 
In  vain  :  for  Panic,  the  pale  fiend  who  charms 
Strength  to  forswear  her  right,  those  millions  swept 
Like  waves  before  the  tempest — these  alarms 
Came  to  me,  as  to  know  their  cause  I  leapt  [wept! 

On  the  gate's  turret,  and  in  rage  and  grief  and  scorn  I 

IT. 

For  to  the  North  I  saw  the  town  on  fire, 
And  its  red  light  made  morning  pallid  now. 
Which  burst  over  wide  Asia. — Louder,  higher, 
The  yells  of  victory  and  the  screams  of  wo 
I  heatd  approach,  and  saw  tlie  throng  below  [falls 
Stream  through  the  gates  like  foam-wrought  water- 
Fed  from  a  thousand  stonns — the  fearful  glow 
Of  bombs  flares  overhead — at  intervals 
The  red  artillery's  bolt  mangling  among  them  falls. 

V. 

And  now  the  horsemen  come — and  all  was  done 
Swifter  than  I  have  spoken — I  beheld 
Their  red  swords  flash  in  the  unrisen  sun. 
I  rushed  among  the  rout  to  have  repelled 
That  miserable  flight — one  moment  quelled 
By  voice,  and  looks,  and  eloquent  despair. 
As  if  reproach  from  their  own  hearts  withheld 
Their  steps,  they  stood ;  but  soon  came  pouring 
there  [bear. 

New  multitudes,  and  did  those  rallied  bands  o'er- 


I  strove,  as  drifted  on  some  cataract 
Bv  irresistible  streams,  some  wretch  might  strive 
Who  hear.s  its  fatal  roar :  the  files  com[)act 
Whelmed  me,  and  from  the  gate  availed  to  drive 
With  quickening  impulse,  as  each  bolt  did  rive 
Their  ranks  with  bloodier  chasm :  into  the  plain 
Disgorged  at  length  the  dead  and  the  alive. 
In  one  dread  mass,  were  parted,  and  the  stain 
Of  blood  from  mortal  steel  fell  o'er  the  fields  like 


For  now  the  despot's  bloodhounds  with  their  prey 
Unarmed  and  unaware,  were  gorging  deep 
Their  gluttony  of  death;  the  loose  array 
Of  horsemen  o'er  the  wide  fields  murdering  sweep, 
And  with  loud  laughter  for  their  tyrant  reap 
A  harvest  sown  with  other  hopes ;  the  while, 
Far  overhead,  ships  from  Propontis  keep 
A  killing  rain  of  fire  : — when  the  waves  smile 
As  sudden  earthquakes  light  many  a  volcano  isle. 

Till. 

Thus  sudden,  unexpected  feast  was  spread 
For  the  carrion  fowls  of  heaven. — I  saw  the  sight — 
I  moved — I  lived — as  o'er  the  heaps  of  dead, 
Whose  stony  eyes  glared  in  the  morning  light, 
I  trod ;  to  me  there  came  no  thought  of  flight, 
But  with  loud  cries  of  scorn  which  whoso  heard 
That  dreaded  death,  felt  in  his  veins  the  might 
Of  virtuous  shame  return,  the  crowd  I  stirred, 
And  desperation's  hope  in  many  hearts  recurred. 

IX. 

A  band  of  brothers  gathering  round  me,  made, 
Although  unarmed,  a  steadfast  front,  and  still 
Retreating,  with  stern  looks  beneath  the  shade 
Of  gathered  eyebrows,  did  the  victors  fill 
With  doubt  even  in  success ;  deliberate  will 
Inspired  our  growing  troop ;  not  overthrown 
It  gained  the  shelter  of  a  grassy  hill, 
And  ever  still  our  comrades  were  hewn  down. 
And  their  defenceless  Umbs  beneath  our  footsteps 
strown. 

X. 

Immovably  we  stood — in  joy  I  found. 
Beside  me  then,  firm  as  a  giant  pine 
Among  the  mountain  vapours  driven  around. 
The  old  man  whom  I  loved — his  eyes  divine 
With  a  mild  look  of  courage  answered  mine, 
And  my  young  friend  was  near,  and  ardently 
His  hand  grasped  mine  a  moment — now  the  line 
Of  war  extended,  to  our  rallying  cry. 
As  myriads  flocked  in  love  and  brotherhood  to  die. 

XI. 
For  ever  while  the  sun  was  climbing  Heaven 
The  horsemen  hewed  our  unarmed  myriads  down 
Safely,  though  when  by  thirst  of  carnage  driven 
Too  near,  those  slaves  were  swiftly  overthrown 
By  hundreds  leaping  on  them :  flesh  and  bone 
Soon  made  our  ghastly  ramparts ;  then  the  shaft 
Of  the  artillery  from  the  sea  was  thrown 
More  fast  and  ficrj',  and  the  conquerors  laughed 
In  pride  to  hear  the  whid  our  screams  of  torment 
waft. 


94 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


For  on  one  sido  alone  the  hill  gave  sholtor, 
So  vast  that  phalanx  of  iniconquerivl  men, 
And  there  the  hving  in  their  Mood  did  welter 
Of  the  dead  and  dying,  which,  in  that  green  glen, 
Like  stilled  torrents,  made  a  plashy  fen 
Under  the  feot — thus  was  the  but/:hery  waged 
M'liile  the  sun  t'lomb  Heaven's  eastern  steep — hut 
It  'gan  to  sink,  a  fiercer  coinhat  raged,         [when 
For  in  more  doubtful  strife  the  armies  were  engaged. 

xiir. 
Within  a  cave  upon  the  hill  were  found 
A  bundle  of  rude  pikes,  the  instrument 
Of  those  who  war  but  on  their  native  ground 
For  natural  rights  :  a  shout  of  joyancc  sent 
Even  from   our  hearts  the  wide  air  pierced  and 
As  those  few  arms  the  bravest  and  the  best  [rent, 
Seized;  and  each  sixth,  thus  armed,  did  now  present 
A  line  which  covered  and  sustained  the  rest, 

A  confident  phalanx,  which  the  foes  on  every  side 
invest. 

•siv. 
That  onset  turned  the  foes  to  flight  almost ; 
But  soon  they  saw  their  j)resent  strength,  and  knew 
That  coming  night  would  to  our  resolute  host 
Bring  nctory  ;  so  dismounting  close  they  drew 
Their  glittering  files,  and  then  the  combat  grew 
Unequal  but  most  horrible  ; — and  ever 
Our  imTiads,  whom  the  swift  bolt  overthrew. 
Or  the  red  sword,  failed  like  a  mountain  river 

Which  rushes  forth  in  foam  to  sink  in  sands  for 
ever. 

XV. 

Sorrow  and  shame,  to  see  with  their  own  kind 
Our  human  brethren  mix,  like  beasts  of  blood 
To  mutual  ruin  armed  by  one  behind,  [good 

Who  sits  and   scofls  ! — That  friend  so  mild  and 
Who  like  its  shadow  near  my  youth  had  stood, 
Was  stalibed ! — my  old  preserver's  hoary  hair. 
With  the  tlesh  cliugiiig  to  its  roots,  was  strewed 
Under  my  feet !  I  lost  all  sense  or  care, 
And  like  the  rest  I  grew  desperate  and  unaware. 

XVI. 

The  battle  became  ghastlier,  in  the  midst 
I  paused,  and  saw,  how  ugly  and  how  fell, 
O  Hate  !  thou  art,  even  when  thy  life  tliou  shedd'st 
For  love.     The  ground  in  many  a  little  dell 
Was  broken,  up  and  down  Whose  steps  befell 
Alternate  victorj'  and  defeat,  and  there 
The  combatants  with  ra'^e  most  horrll)le 
Strove,  and  their  eyes  started  with  cracking  stare. 
And  imj)otent  their  tongues  they  lolled  into  the  air, 

XVIT. 

Flaccid  and  foamy,  like  a  mad  dog's  hanging; 
Want,  and   Moon-ma<iness,  and   the  Pest's  swift 

banc.  [twanging — • 

When   its   shafts   smite — while  yet  its  bow   is 
Have  each  tlieir  mark  and  sign — some  ghastly 

stain ; 
And  this  was  thine,  O  War!  of  hate  and  pain 
Thou  loathed  shive.     I  saw  all  shapes  of  death, 
And  minister'd  to  many,  o'er  the  plain 
VVhilecarnage  in  the  suiibeam'swarmlh  didseethe. 
Till  twilight  o'er  the  east  wove  her  sercnest  wreath. 


XVII  I. 

The  few  who  yet  survived,  resolute  and  firm, 
Around  me  fought.     At  the  decline  of  day, 
Winding  above  the  mountain's  snowy  term, 
New  banners  shone :  they  quivered  in  the  ray 
Of  the  sun's  unseen  orb — ere  night  the  array 
Of  fresh   troops  henniied  us   in — of  those  brave 
1  soon  sur^ivcd  alone — and  now  I  lay         [bands 
Vanquished  and  faint,  the  grasj)  of  bloody  hands 
I  felt,  and  saw  on  high  the  glare  of  falling  brands ; 

XTX. 

When  on  my  foes  a  sudden  terror  came. 
And    they    fled,  scattering. — Lo !    with    reinle.ss 
A  black  Tartarian  horse  of  giant  frame       [speed 
Comes  tramjiling  o'er  the  dead  ;  the  living  Weed 
Beneath  the  hoofs  of  that  tremendous  steed, 
On  which,  like  to  an  angel,  robed  in  white, 
Sate  one  waving  a  sword;  the  hosts  recede 
And  fly,  as  through  their  ranks,  with  awful  might, 
Sweeps  in  the  shadow  of  eve  that  Phantom  swift 
and  bright ; 

XX. 

And  its  path  made  a  solitude. — I  rose 
And  marked  its  coming;  it  relaxed  its  course 
As  it  ap])roachQ^d  me,  and  the  wind  that  flows  [force 
Through  night,  bore  accents  to,  mine  ear  whose 
Might  create  smiles  in  death. — The  Tartar  horse 
Paused,  and -I  saw  the  shape  its  might  which 
swayed,  [source 

And   heard    her   musical    pants,    like   the  sweet 
Of  waters  in  the  desert,  as  she  said, 
"  Mount  with  me,  Laon,  now" — I  rapidly  obeyed. 

XXI. 

Then  "  Away !  away !"  she  cried,  and  stretched  her 
As  'twere  a  scourge  ever  the  coursers  head,  [sword 
And  lightly  .shook  the  reins. — \\'e  spake  no  word, 
But  like  the  vapour  of  the  temi)est  fled 
Over  the  pl:un ;  her  dark  hair  was  dispread, 
Like  the  pine's  locks  upon  the  lingering  blast; 
Over  mine  eyes  its  shadowy  strings  it  spread 
Fitfully,  and  the  hills  and  streams  fled  fast. 
As  o'er  their  glimmering  forms  the  steed's  broad 
shadow  past ; 

XXTI. 

And  his  hoofs  ground  the  rocks  to  fire  and  dust, 
His  strong  sides  made  the  torrents  rise  in  spray, 
And  turi)ulenee,  asj  if  a  whirhvind's  gust   • 
Surrounded  us  ; — and  still  away  !   away  ! 
Through  the  desert  night  we  sj)ed,  while  she  alway 
Gazed  on  a  mountain  which  we  neared,  whose  cvcst 

.  Crowned  wilha  marble  ruin,  in  the  ray 
Of  the  obscure  stars  gleamed  ;^its  rugged  breast 

The  steed  strained  up,  and  then  his  impulse  did 
arrest. 

XXIII. 

A  rocky  hill  which  overhung  the  Ocean  . — 
From  that  lone  ruin,  when  the  steed  that  panted 
Paused,  might  be  heard  the  murmur  of  the  motion 
Of  waters,  as  in  spot.s  for  ever  haunted 
By  the  choicest  winds  of  Heaven,  which  arc  en- 
To  music  by  the  wand  of  Solitude,  [chanted 

That  wizard  wild,  and  the  far  tents  imphmted 
Upon  the  plain,  be  seen  by  those  who  stood 
Thence  marking  the  dark  shore  of  Ocean's  cXirved 
flood. 


fr 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


Ofj 


XXIT. 

t)iic  moment  tlirsc  were  heard  and  seen — another 
Past;  and  the  two  who  stood  beneath  that  night, 
Each  only  heard,  or  saw,  or  leU,  the  other; 
As  from  the  lofty  steed  she  did  alight, 
C-ythna  (for,  from  tlie  eyes  whose  deepest  light 
Of  love  and  sadness  made  my  lips  feel  pale 
With  intluence  strange  of  monrnfullest  delight, 
]\Iv  own  sweet  Cythna  looked,)  with  joy  did  quail. 
And  felt  her  strength  in  tears  of  human  weakness 
f;dl. 

XXV. 

And  for  a  space  in  my  eml)racc  she  rested, 
Her  head  on  my  unquiet  heart  reposing. 
While  my  faint  arms  her  languid  frame  invested: 
At  length  she  looked  on  me,  and  half  unclosing 
Her  tremulous  lips,  said:  "  Friend,  thy  bands  were 
The  battle,  as  I  stood  before  the  King         [losing 
In  bonds. — I  burst  them  then,  and  swiftly  choosing 
The  time,  did  seize  a  Tartar's  sword,  and  spring 
Upon  his  horse,  and  swift  as  on  the  whirlwind's 
wing, 

XXVI. 

"  Have  thou  and  I  been  borne  beyond  pursuer, 
And  we  are  here." — Then,  turning  to  the  steed, 
She  pressed  the  white  moon  on  his  front  with  pure 
And  rose-like  lips,  and  many  a  fragrant  weed 
From  the  green  ruin  plucked,  that  he  might  feed; — 
But  I  to  a  stone  seat  that  Maiden  led. 
And  kissing  her  fair  eyes,  said,  "  Thou  hast  need 
Of  rest,"  and  I  heaped  up  the  courser's  bed 

In   a  grcpn  mossy  nook,  with  mountam  flowers 
dispread. 

xxvir. 
Within  that  rain,  where  a  .shattered  portal 
Looks  to  the  eastern  stars,  abandoned  now 
By  man,  to  the  home  of  things  immortal. 
Memories,  like  awful  ghosts  which  come  and  go. 
And  must  inherit  all  he  builds  below, 
When  he  is  gone,  a  hall  stood ;  o'er  whose  roof 
Fair  clinging  weeds  with  i^•y  pale  did  grow. 
Clasping  its  gray  rents  with  a  verdurous  woof, 

A  hanging  dome  of  leaves,  a  canopy  moon-proof. 

xxvni. 
The  autumnal  w-inds,  as  if  spell-bound,  had  made 
A  natural  couch  of  leaves  in  that  recess, 
W^hich  seasons  none  disturbed,  but  in  the  shade 
Of  flowering  parasites,  did  spring  love  to  dress 
With  their  sweet  blooms  the  wintry  loneliness 
Of  those  dead  leaves,  shedding  their  starswhene'cr 
The  wandering  wind  her  nurslings  might  caress ; 
Whose  intertwining  fingers  ever  there. 
Made  music  wild  and  soft  that  filled  the  listening 
air. 

XXIX. 

We  know  not  where  we  go,  or  what  sweet  dream 
May  pilot  us  through  caverns  strange  and  fair 
Of  far  and  pathless  passion,  while  the  stream 
Of  life  our  bark  doth  on  its  whirlpools  bear. 
Spreading  swift  wings  as  sails  to  the  dim  air ; 
Nor  shsuld  we  .seek  to  know,  so  the  devotion 
Of  love  and  gentle  thoughts  be  heard  still  there 
Louder  and  louder  from  the  utmost  Ocean 
Of  universal  life,  attuning  its  commotion. 


To  the  pure  all  things  arc  pure !  Oblivion  wrapt 
Our  spirits,  and  the  fe;u-ful  overthrow 
Of  public  hope  was  Jrom  our  being  snapt. 
Though  linked  j-earshad  bound  it  Iheri! ;  fornow 
A  ])ower,  a  thirst,  a  knowledge,  which  below 
All  thoughts,  like  light  beyond  the  atnjosphcre, 
Clotliing  its  clouds  with  grace,  doth  ever  flow, 
Came  on  us,  as  we  sate  in  silence  there. 
Beneath  the  golden  stars  of  the  clear  a/ure  air. 


In  silence  whi<'h  doth  follow  talk  that  causes 
The  baflled  heart  to  speak  with  sighs  and  tears. 
When  wildering  passion  swalloweth  up  the  pauses 
Of  inexpressive  speech: — the  youthful  years 
Which  we  together  fiast,  their  ho])es  and  fears. 
The  blood  itself  which  ran  within  our  frames, 
That  likeness  of  the  features  which  endears 
The  thoughts  expressed  by  them,  our  \cry  names. 
And  all  the  winged  hours  which  speechless  nremory 

claims, 

xxxir. 
Had  found  a  voice  : — and  ere  that  voice  did  pass, 
TJie  night  gi-ew  damp  and  dim,  and  through  a  rent 
Of  the  ruin  where  we  sate,  from  the  morass, 
A  wandering  Meteor,  by  some  wild  wind  sent. 
Hung  high  in  the  green  dome,  to  which  it  lent' 
A  faint  and  pallid  lustre ;  while  the  song 
Of  blasts,  in  which  its  blue  hair  quivering  bent, 
Strewed    strangest   sounds    the    niovuig    leaves 

among ; 
A  wondrous  light,  the  sound  as  of  a  spirit's  tongue. 

XXXIII. 

The  Meteor  showed  the  leaves  on  which  we  sate. 
And  C3-thna'R  glowing  arms,  and  the  thick  ties 
Of  her  soft  hair,  which  bent  with  gathered  w'eight 
My  neck  near  hers,  her  dark  and  deepening  eyes, 
W'hich,  as  twin  phantoms  of  one  star  that  Ues 
O'er  a  dim  well,  move,  though  the  star  reposes, 
Swam  in  our  mute  and  liquid  ecstacies, 
Her  marble  brow,  and  eager  lips,  like  roses, 
With  their  own  fi-agrance  pale,  wliich  spring  but 
half  uncloses. 

XXXIV. 

The  meteor  to  its  far  morass  returned  : 
The  beating  of  our  veins  one  interval 
IMade  still ;  and  then  I  felt  the  blood  that  burned 
W^ithin  her  frame,  mingle  with  mme,  and  fall 
Around  my  heart  like  fire  ;  and  over  all 
A  mist  was  spread,  the  sickness  of  a  deep 
And  speechless  swoon  of  joy,  as  might  befall 
Two  disunited  .'■pirits  when  they  leap 
In  union  from  this  earth's  obscure  and  fading  sleep. 

XXXV. 

W'as  it  one  moment  that  confounded  thus 
All  thought,  all  sense,  all  feeling,  into  one 
Unutterable  pov.-er,  which  shielded  us 
Even  from  our  own  cold  looks,  when  we  had  gone 
Into  a  wide  and  wild  oblivion 
Of  tumult  and  of  tenderness  1   or  now 
Had  ages,  such  as  make  the  moon  and  sun, 
The  seasons  and  mankind,  their  changes  know, 
Left  fear  and  time  unfelt  by  us  alone  below  ! 


96 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


XXXVI. 

I  know  not.     What  arc  kisses  wliose  fire  clasps 
The  faiUiis  Heart  in  hiiigiiishniciit,  or  Umb 
Twined  williin  litnh  ]   or  the  ijuiek  living  gasps 
Of  the  life  meeting,  when  the  taint  eyes  swim 
Through  tears  of  a  wide  mist,  boundless  and  dim, 
In  one  caress  !    What  is  the. strong  control 
M'hich  leads  the  heart  tliat  dizzy  steep  to  climb, 
Where  far  over  the  world  those  vapours  roll, 
Which  blend  two  restless  frames  in  one  reposing 
soul  I 

XXXVII. 

It  is  the  shadow  which  doth  float  unseen. 
But  not  unfelt,  o'er  blind  mortality. 
Whose  divine  darkness  fled  not  from  that  green 
And  lone  recess,  where  lapt  in  peace  did  lie 
Our  linked  frames,  till,  from  the  changing  sky. 
That  night  and  still  another  day  had  fled; 
And  then  I  saw  and  felt.     The  moon  was  high. 
And  clouds,  as  of  a  coming  storm,  were  spread 
Underits  orb, — loud  windswere  gathering  overhead. 

XXXTIIT. 

Cythna's  sweet  Ups  seemed  lurid  in  the  moon. 
Her  fairest  limbs  with  the  night  wind  were  chill, 
And  her  dark  tresses  were  all  loosely  strewn 
O'er  her  pale  bosom : — all  within  was  still, 
And  the  sweet  peace  of  joy  did  almost  fill 
The  depth  of  her  unfathomable  look ; — 
And  we  sate  calmly,  though  that  rocky  hill. 
The  waves  contending  in  its  caverns  strook, 
For  they  foreknew  the  storm,  and  the  gi-ay  rum 
shook. 

XXXIX. 

There  we  unheeding  sate,  in  the  communion 
Of  interchanged  vows,  which,  with  a  rite 
Of  faith  most  sweet  and  sacred,  stamped  our  union.- 
Few  were  the  hving  hearts  which  could  unite 
Like  ours,  or  celebrate  a  bridal  night 
With  such  close  sympathies,  for  they  had  sprung 
From  linked  youth,  and  from  the  gentle  might 
Of  earUcst  love,  delayed  and  cherished  long, 
Which  common  hopes  and    fears    made,  hke  a 
tempest,  strong. 

XL. 

And  such  is  Nature's  law  divine,  that  those 
Who  grow  together  cannot  choose  but  love. 
If  faith  or  custom  do  not  interpose, 
Or  common  shivery  mar  what  else  might  move 
All  gentlest  thoughts ;  as  in  the  sacred  grove 
Which  shades  the  sjjrings  of  ^Ethiopian  Nile,     ■ 
That  living  tree,  which,  if  the  arrowy  dove 
Strike  with  her  shadow,  shrinks  in  fear  awhile. 
But  its  own  kindred  leaves  clasps  while  the  sun- 
beams smile ; 

XLI. 

And  clings  to  them,  when  darkness  may  dissever 
The  close  caresses  of  all  duller  plants 
Which  bloom  on  the  wide  earth — thus  we  for  ever 
Were  linked,  for  love  had  nurst  us  in  the  haunts 
Where  knowledge  from  its  secret  source  enchants 
Young  hearts  with  the  fresh  music  of  its  springing. 
Ere  yet  its  gathered  flood  fecils  human  wants. 
As  the  great  >i'ile  feeds  Egypt;  ever  flinging 
Light  on  the  woven  boughs  which  o'er  its  waves 
arc  swinging. 


The  tones  of  Cythna's  voice  like  echoes  were 
Of  those  farmurmuringstreams;  they  rose  and  fell, 
Mixed  with  mine  own  in  the  tempestuous  air, — 
And  so  we  sate,  until  our  talk  befell 
Of  the  late  ruin,  swift  and  horrible. 
And  how  those  seeds  of  hojie  might  yet  be  sown. 
Whose  fruit  is  evil's  mortal  jwison  :  well 
For  us,  this  ruin  made  a  watch-tower  lone. 
But  Cythna's  eyes  looked  faint,  and  now  two  days 
were  gone 

XLIII. 

Since  she  had  food : — therefore  I  did  awaken 
The  Tartar  steed,  who,  from  his  ebon  mane, 
Soon  as  the  clinging  slumbers  he  had  shaken, 
Bent  his  thin  head  to  seek  the  brazen  rein, 
Following  mc  olicdiently  ;  with  pain 
Of  heart,  so  deep  and  dread,  that  one  caress, 
When  lips  and  heart  refuse  to  part  again, 
Till  they  have  told  their  fill,  could  scarce  express 
The  anguish  of  her  mute  and  fearful  tenderness, 

XLIV. 

Cythna  beheld  me  part,  as  I  bestrode 
That  willing  steed — the  tempest  and  the  night. 
Which  gave  my  path  its  safety  as  I  rode 
Down  the  ravine  of  rocks,  did  soon  unite 
The  darkness  and  the  tumult  of  their  might 
Borne  on  all  winds. — Far  through  the  streaming 

rain 
Floating  at  inter\-als  the  garments  white 
Of  Cythna  gleamed,  and  her  voice  once  again 
Came  to  me  on  the  gust,  and  soon  I  reached  the  plain. 

XLV. 

I  dreaded  not  the  tempest,  nor  did  he 
Who  bore  me,  but  his  eyeballs  wide  and  red 
Turned  on  the  lightning's  cleft  exultingly ; 
And  when  the  earth  beneath  his  tameless  tread, 
Shook  with  the  sullen  thunder,  he  would  Spread 
His  nostrils  to  the  blast,  and  joyously 
Mock  the  fierce  peal  with  neighings; — thus  we  sped 
O'er  the  lit  plain,  and  soon  I  could  descry 
WlicrC  Death  and  Fire  had  gorged  the  spoil  of 
victory. 

XLTI. 

There  was  a  desolate  village  in  a  wood. 
Whose  bloom-inwoven  leaves  now  scattering  fed 
The  hungry  storm  ;  it  w-as  a  place  of  blood, 
A  heap  of  hearthless  walls ; — the  flames  were  dead 
Within  those  dwellings  now, — the  life  had  fled 
From  all  those  corpses  now, — but  the  w  idc  sky 
Flooded  with  lightning  was  ribbed  overhead 
By  the  black  rafters,  and  around  did  lie 
Women,  and  babes,  and  men,  slaughtered  con- 
fusedly. 

XLVII. 

Beside  the  fountain  in  the  market-place 
Dismounting,  I  beheld  those  corpses  stare 
M'ith  horny  eyes  upon  each  other's  face, 
And  on  the  earth  and  on  the  vacant  air, 
And  upon  me,  close  to  the  waters  where 
I  stooped  to  slake  my  thirst; — I  shrank  to  taste. 
For  the  salt  bitterness  of  blood  was  there  ! 
But  tied  the  steed  beside,  and  sought  in  haste 
If  any  yet  survived  amid  that  ghastly  waste. 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


97 


■XLTIIT. 

No  livinc;  thine;  was  there  beside  one  woman, 
Whom  I  tbiiuil  wandering  in  the  streets,  and  she 
Was  withered  from  a  hkencss  of  aiight  human 
Into  a  tienil,  by  some  strange  misery  : 
Soon  as  she  heard  my  steps  she  leaped  on  me, 
And  glueil  her  burning  H[)s  to  mine,  and  laughed 
^Vith  a  loud,  long,  and  frantic  laugh  of  glee, 
And  cried,  "Now,MortaI,tliou  hasldeeply  quaffed 
The    Plague's    blue    kisses — soon    millions   shall 
pledge  the  draught ! 

XLIX. 

"  My  name  is  Pestilence — this  bosom  dry 
Once  fed  two  babes — a  sister  and  a  brother — 
WHien  I  came  home,  one  in  the  blood  did  lie 
Of  three  death-wounds — the  (lames  had  ate  the 
Since  then  I  have  no  longer  been  a  mother,    [other ! 
But  I  am  Pestilence; — hither  and  thither 
I  flit  about,  that  I  may  slay  and  smother ; — 
All  lips  which  I  have  kissed  must  surely  wither. 

But  Death's — if  thou   art  he,  we'll   go  to  work 
together ! 

r. 
"  What  seekest  thou  here  ?  the  moonlight  comes  in 
The  dew  is  rising  dankly  from  the  dell ;  [flashes, — 
'Twill  moisten  her  !  and  thou  shall  see  the  gashes 
In  my  sweet  boy — now  full  of  worms — but  tell 
First  what  thou  seek'st." — "  I  seek  for  food." — 

"  'Tis  well. 
Thou  shalt  have  food ;  Famine,  my  paramour, 
Waits  for  us  at  the  feast — cruel  and  fell 
Is  Fajnine,  but  he  drives  not  from  his  door 

Those  whom  these  lips  have  kissed,  alone.     No 
more,  no  more !" 

LI. 

As  thus  she  spake,  she  grasped  me  with  the  strength 
Of  madness,  and  by  many  a  ruined  hearth 
She  led,  and  over  many  a  corpse : — at  length 
We  c,ame  to  a  lone  hut,  where  on  the  earth 
Which  made  its  floor,  she  in  her  ghastly  mirth 
Gathering  from  all  those  homes  now  desolate, 
Had  piled  three  heaps  of  loaves,  making  a  dearth 
Among  the  dead — round  which  she  set  in  state 
A  ring  of  cold,  stiff  babes ;  silent  and  stark  they  sate, 

LII. 

She  leaped  upon  a  pile,  and  lifted  high 
Her  mad  looks  to  the  lightning,  and  cried :  "  Eat ! 
Share  the  great  feast — ^to-morrow  we  must  die  !" 
And  then  she  spurned  the  loaves  with  her  pale  feet, 
Towards  her  bloodless  guests ; — that  sight  to  meet, 
Mine  eyes  and  my  heart  ached,  and  but  that  she 
Who  loved  me,  did  with  absent  looks  defeat 
Despair,  I  might  have  raved  in  sympathy ; 
But  now  I  took  the  food  that  woman  oflered  me  ; 

LIU. 

And  vainly  having  with  her  madness  striven 
If  I  might  win  her  to  return  with  me. 
Departed.     In  the  eastern  beams  of  Heaven 
The  lightning  now  grew  pallid — rapidly, 
As  by  the  shore  of  the  tempestuous  sea 
The  dark  steed  bore  me,  and  the  mountain  gray 
Soon  echoed  to  his  hoofs,  and  I  could  see 
Cythna  among  the  rocks,  where  she  alway 
Had  sate,  with  anxious  eyes  fixed  on  the  lingering 
day. 

13 


And  joy  was  ours  to  meet :  she  was  most  pale. 
Famished,  and  wet  and  weary,  so  I  cast 
My  arms  around  her,  lest  her  steps  should  fail 
As  to  our  home  we  went,  and  thus  embraced, 
Her  full  heart  seemed  a  deeper  joy  to  taste 
Than  e'er  the  prosperous  know  ;  the  steed  behind 
Trod  peacefully  along  the  mountain  waste : 
We  reached  our  home  ere  morning  could  unbind 
Night's  latest  veil,  and  on  our  bridal  couch  reclined. 

LT. 

Her  chilled  heart  having  cherished  in  my  bosom, 
And  sweetest  kisses  past,  we  tvi'o  did  share 
Our  peaceful  meal : — as  an  autumnal  blossom, 
Which  s)ireads  its  sluunk  leaves  in  the  sunny  air, 
After  cold  showers,  like  rainbows  woven  there, 
Thus  in  her  lips  and  cheeks  the  vital  spirit 
Mantled,  and  in  her  eyes,  an  atmosphere  [it, 

Of  health,  and  hope  ;  and  sorrow  languished  near 
And  fear,  and  all  that  dark  despondence  doth  inherit. 

CANTO  VIL 

I. 

So  we  sate  joyous  as  the  morning  ray 
Which  fed  upon  the  wrecks  of  night  and  storm 
Now  lingering  on  the  winds ;  light  airs  did  play 
Among  the  dewy  weeds,  the  sun  was  warm, 
And  we  sate  linked  in  the  inwoven  chann 
Of  converse  and  caresses  sweet  and  deep, 
Speechless  caresses,  talk  that  might  disarm 
Time,  though  he  wield  the  darts  of  death  and  sleep, 
And  those  thrice  mortal  barbs  in  his  own  poison 
steep. 

IT. 

I  told  her  of  my  sufferings  and  my  madness, 
And  how,  awakened  from  that  dreamy  mood 
By  Liberty's  uprise,  the  strength  of  gladness 
Came  to  my  spirit  in  my  solitude ; 
And  all  that  now  I  was,  while  tears  pursued 
Each  other  down  her  fair  and  hstening  cheek 
Fast  as  the  thoughts  which  fed  them,  like  a  flood 
From  sunbright  dales ;  and  when  I  ceased  to  speak. 

Her  accents  soft  and  sweet  the  pausing  air  did  wake. 
III. 
She  told  me  a  strange  tale  of  strange  endurance, 
Like  broken  memories  of  man_y  a  heart 
Woven  into  one ;  to  which  no  firm  assurance. 
So  wild  were  they,  could  her  own  faith  impart. 
She  said  that  not  a  tear  did  dare  to  start       [firm 
From  the  swoln  brain,  and  that  her  thoughts  were 
When  from  all  mortal  hope  she  did  depart, 
Borne  by  those  slaves  across  the  Ocean's  term, 

And  that  she  reached  the  port  %vithout  one  fear 
infirm. 

IT. 

One  was  she  among  many  there,  the  thralls 
Of  the  cold  tyrant's  cruel  lust :   and  they 
Laughed  mournfully  in  those  polluted  halls; 
But  she  was  calm  and  sad,  musing  alway 
On  loftiest  enterjirise,  till  on  a  day 
The  tyrant  heard  her  singing  to  her  lute 
A  wild  and  sad,  and  spirit-thrilling  lay. 
Like  winds  that  die  in  wastes — one  moment  mute 
The  evil  thoughts  it  made,  which  did  his  breast 
pollute. 

I 


98 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


Even  when  he  saw  her  womlrous  loveliness, 
One  jiioinent  to  jrreat  Xatiiro's  sacred  power 
He  bent  and  w;is  no  lousier  passionless; 
But  when  he  bade  her  to  his  secret  bower 
Be  borne  a  loveless  victim,  and  she  tore 
Her  locks  in  asrony,  and  her  words  of  flame 
And  miiihtier  looks  availed  not ;  then  he  bore 
Ap^ain  his  load  of  slavery,  and  became 
A  kiJig,  a  heartless  beast,  a  j>ageant  and  a  name. 

vr. 
She  told  mc  what  a  loathsome  apony 
Is  that  when  seltishness  mocks  love's  delight, 
Foul  as  in  dreams  most  fearful  imas^ery 
To  dally  with  the  mowing  dead — that  night 
All  torture,  fear,  or  horror,  made  seem  light 
Which  the  soul  dreams  or  knows,  and  when  the 
Shone  on  her  awful  frenzy,  from  the  sight    [day 
Where  like  a  Spirit  in  fleshy  chains  she  lay 
StruggUng,  aghast  and  pale  the  tyrant  fled  away. 

TII. 

Her  madness  was  a  beam  of  light,  a  power 
Which  dawned  through  the  rent  soul ;  and  words 

it  gave. 
Gestures  and  looks,  such  as  in  whirlwinds  horc 
Which  might  not  be  withstood,  whence  none  coidd 

save  [wave 

All  who  approached  tlicir  sphere,  like  some  calm 
Vexed  into  whirlpools  by  the  chasms  beneath ; 
And  sympathy  made  each  attendant  slave 
Fearless  and  free,  and  they  liegan  to  breathe 
Deep  curses,  like  the  voice  of  flames  far  underneath. 

Tin. 
The  King  felt  pale  upon  his  noonday  throne ; 
At  night  two  skives  he  to  her  chamlier  sent. 
One  was  a  green  and  wrinkled  eunuch,  grown 
From  Inunan  shape  into  an  instrument 
Of  all  things  ill — Hlistorted,  bowed  and  bent. 
The  other  was  a  wretch  from  infancy 
Made  dumb  by  poison ;  who  nought  know  or  meant 
But  to  obey :  from  the  fire-isles  came  he, 
A  diver  lean  and  strong,  of  Oman's  coral  sea. 

IX. 

They  bore  her  to  a  bark,  and  the  swifl  stroke 
Of  silent  rowers  clove  the  blue  moonlight  setis, 
Until  upon  their  path  the  morning  broke; 
They   anchored  then,  where,  be  there   calm  or 
The  gloomiest  of  the  di-ear  Symplegadcs  [breeze, 
Shakes  with  the  sleepless  surge; — the  JE  thiop  there 
Wound  his  long  arms  around  her,  and  with  knees 
Like  iron  clasped  her  feet,  and  plunged  with  her 
Among  the  closing  waves  out  of  the  byundless  air. 

X. 

"  Swift  as  an  eagle  stooping  from  the  plain 
Of  morning  light,  into,  some  shadowy  wood, 
He  plunged  through  the  green  silence  of  the  main. 
Through  many  a  cavern  which  the  eternal  flood 
Had  scooped,  as  dark  lairs  for  its  monster  brood  ; 
And  among  mighty  shapes  which  fled  in  wonder, 
And  among  mightier  shadows  which  pursued 
His  heels,  he  wound :  until  the  dark  rocks  under 
Ho  touched  a  golden  chain — a  sound  arose  like 
thunder. 


"  A  stunning  clang  of  massive  bolts  rcdouWing 
Beneath  the  deep — a  burst  of  waters  driven 
As  from  the  roots  of  the  sea,  raging  and  bubbling; 
And  in  that  roof  of  crags  a  space  was  riven 
Through  which  there  shone  the  emerald  beams  of 

lieavin, 
Shot  throuuh  the  lines  of  many  waves  inwoven, 
Like  sunli^jlit  through  acacia  woods  at  even, 
Through  wliich,  his  way  the  diver  having  cloven, 
Past  like  a  sjark  sent  up  out  of  a  burning  oven. 

XII. 

"  And  then,"  she  said,  "  he  laid  me  in  a  cave 
Above  the  waters,  by  that  chasm  of  sea, 
A  fountain  round  and  vast,  in  which  the  wave 
Imprisoned,  boiled  and  leaped  perpetually, 
Down  which,  one  moment  resting,  he  did  flee. 
Winning  the  adverse  depth :  that  spacious  cell 
Like  an  upaithric  temple  wide  and  high. 
Whose  aery  dome  is  inaccessible. 
Was  ]»ierced  with  one  round  cleft  through  which 

the  sunbeams  fell. 

xni. 
"  Below,  the  fountain's  brink  was  richly  pavon 
With  the  deep's  wealth,  cond,  and  pearl,  and  sand 
liiko  spangling  gold,  and  purple  shells  engraven 
With  mystic  legends  by  no  mortal  hand,   [mand. 
Left  there,  when,  thronging  to  the  moon's  com- 
The  gathering  waves  rent  the  Hesperian  gate 
Of  mountains,  and  on  such  bright  floor  did  stand 
Colunnis,  and  shapes  like  statues,  and  the  state 
Of  kingless  thrones,  which  Earth  did  in  her  heart 

create. 

XIV. 

"The.  fiend  of  madness  whieh  had  made  its  prey 
Of  my  poor  heart,  was  lulled  to  sleep  awhile  : 
There  was  an  interval  of  many  a  day. 
And  a  sea-eagle  brought  me  food  the  while, 
Whose  nest  was  built  in  that  untrodden  isle. 
And  who,  to  be  the  jailer,  had  been  taught, 
Of  that  strange  dungeon  :  as  a  friend  whose  smile 
Like  light  and  rest  at  morn  and  even  is  sought, 
That  wild  bird  was  to  mc,  till  madness  misery 
brought. 

XT. 

"  The  miscrj'  of  a  madness  slow  and  creeping, 
Which  made  the  earth  seem  fire,  the  sea  seem  air, 
Ami  the  white  clouds  of  noon  which  oft  wxrc  sleep- 
lu  the  1)1  ue  heaven  so  beautiful  and  fair,         [ing 
Like  hosts  of  ghastly  shadows  hovering  there; 
And  the  sea-eagle  looked  a  fiend  wlio  bore 
Thy  mangled  limbs  for  food  ! — Thus  nil  things  were 
Transformed  into  the  agony  which  I  wore. 
Even  as  a  poisoned  robe  around  my  bosom's  core. 

XVI. 

"  Aijain  I  knew  the  day  and  night  first  fleeing. 
The  eagle  and  the  fountain  and  the  air; 
Another  frenzy  came — there  seemed  a  being 
Within  me— a  strange  load  my  lieart  did  bear, 
As  if  some  living  thing  had  made  its  lair 
Even  in  the  f,)untains  of  my  life  : — a  long 
And  wondrous  vision  wrought  fi-om  my  despair. 
Then  grew,  like  sweet  reality  among 
Dim  visionary  woos,  an  unreposing  throng. 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


99 


"  Mothought  I  was  about  to  be  a  mother — 
Month  after  monih  wont  liy,  and  still  I  dreamed 
That  we  should  soon  be  all  to  one  another, 
I  and  my  child ;  and  still  new  pulses  seemed 
To  beat  beside  my  heart,  and  still  I  deemed 
There  was  i,\  babe  within — and  when  the  rain 
Of  winter  through  the  rifted  cavern  streamed, 
Methonght,  after  a  lapse  of  lingering  jiain, 

I  saw  that  lovely  shape,  which  near  my  heart  had 
lain. 

■xvrii. 
"It  was  a  babe,  beautiful  from  its  birth, — 
It  was  like  thee,  dear  love !  its  ej'cs  were  tliine, 

,  Its  brow,^ts  lips,  and  so  upon  the  earth 
It  laid  its  fingers,  as  now  rest  on  mine 
Thine  own,  beloved ! —  'twas  a  dream  divine ; 
Even  to  remember  how  it  fled,  how  swift, 
How  utterly,  might  make  the  heart  repine, — 
Though  'twas  a  dream." — Then  Cythna  tlid  uplift 

Her  looks  on  mine,  as  if  some  doubt  she  sought  to 
shift : 

XIX. 

A  doubt  which  would  not  flee,  a  tenderness 
Of  questioning  grief,  a  source  of  thronging  tears ; 
Which,  having  past,  as  one  whom  sobs  oppress, 
She  spoke  :  "  Yes,  in  the  wilderness  of  j'cars 
Her  memory  aye  like  a  green  home  appears. 
She  sucked  her  fill  even  at  this  breast,  sweet  love, 
For  many  months  I  had  no  mortal  fears ; 
Methought  I  felt  her  lips  and  breath  approve, — 
It  was  a  human  thing  which  to  my  bosom  clove. 

XX. 

"  I  watched  the  da.vm  of  her  first  smiles,  and  soon 
When  zenith-stars  were  trembling  on  the  wave, 
Or  when  the  beams  of  the  invisible  moon, 
Or  sun.  from  many  a  prism  within  the  cave 
Their  gem-born  shadows  to  the  water  gave, 
Her  looks  would  hunt  them,  and  with  outspread 
hand,  ,  [pave, 

From  the  swift  lights  wliich  might  that  fountain 
She  would  mark  one,  and  laugh,  when  that  com- 
mand '  [stand. 
Slighting,  it  lingered  there,  and  could  not  under- 

XXI. 

"  Methought  her  looks  began  to  talk  with  me  ; 
And  no  articulate  sounds,  but  something  sweet 
Her  lips  would  frame, — so  sweet  it  could  not  be. 
That  it  was  meaningless ;  her  touch  would  meet 
Mine,  and  our  pulses  calmly  flow  and  beat 
In  response  while  we  slept ;  and  on  a  day 
When  I  was  happiest  in  that  strange  retreat, 
With  heaps  of  golden  shells  we  two  did  play, — 

Both  infants,  weaving  wings  for  time's  perpetual 
way. 

xxn. 
"Ere  night,  methought,  her  waning  eyes  were 
Weary  with  joy,  and  tired  with  our  delight,  [grown 
We,  on  the  earth,  like  sister  twins  lay  down 
On  one  fair  mother's  bosom  : — from  that  night 
She  fled  ; — like  those  illusions  clear  and  bright. 
Which  dwell  in  lakes,  when  the  red  moon  on  high 
Pause  ere  it  wakens  tempest; — and  her  flight, 
Though  'twas  the  death  of  brainless  phantasy. 

Yet  smote  my  lonesome  heart  more  than  all  misery. 


XXTII. 

"  It  seemed  that  in  the  dreary  night,  the  diver 
"NMio  brought  mc  thither,  came  again,  and  bore 
My  child  awaj'.     I  saw  the  waters  quiver. 
When  he  so  swiftly  sunk,  as  once  before  : 
Then  morning  came — it  shone  even  as  of  yore. 
But  I  was  changed — the  very  life  was  gone 
Out  of  my  heart — I  wasted  more  and  more. 
Day  after  day,  and  sitting  there  alone,  [moan 

Vexed   the  inconstant  waves  with  my  peqjetual 

XXIT. 

"  I  was  no  longer  mad,  and  yet  methought 

My  breasts  were  swoln  and  changed : — in  every 

vein  [thought 

The  blood    stood  still    one  moment,  while  that 
Was  passing — with  a-  gush  of  sickening  pain 
It  ebbed  even  to  its  withered  springs  again : 
When  my  wan  eyes  in  stern  resolve  I  turned 
From  that  most  strange  delusion,  which  would  fain 
Have  waked  the  dream  for  which  my  spirit  yearned 
With  more  than  human  love, — then  left  it  tmre- 

tumed. 

XXT. 

"  So  now  my  reason  was  restored  to  me, 
I  struggled  with  that  dream,  which,  like  a  beast 
Most  fierce  and  beauteous,  in  my  memory 
Had  made  its  lair,  and  on  my  heart  did  feast ; 
But  all  that  cave  and  all  its  shapes  possest     [one 
By  thoughts  which  could  not  fade,  renewed  each 
Some  smile,  some  look,  some  gesture  which  had 
Me  heretofore  :  I,  sitting  there  alone,  [blest 

Vexed  the  inconstant  waves  with    my  perpetual 
moan. 

XXVI. 

"  Time  past,  I  know  not  whether  months  or  years, 
For  daj',  nor  night,  nor  change  of  seasons  made 
Its  note,  but  thoughts  and  unavailing  tears : 
And  I  became  at  last  even  as  a  shade, 
A  smoke,  a  cloud  on  which  the  winds  have  preyed. 
Till  it  be  thin  as  air ;  until,  one  even, 
A  Nautilus  upon  the  fountain  played. 
Spreading  his  azure  sail  where  breath  of  Heaven 

Descended  not,  among  the  waves  and  whirlpools 
driven. 

xxvir. 
"  And  when  the  Eagle  came,  that  lovely  thing 
Oaring  with  rosy  feet  its  silver  boat. 
Fled  near  me  as  for  shelter ;  on  slow  ■wing. 
The  Eagle,  hovering  o'er  his  prey,  did  float ; 
But  when  he  saw  that  I  with  fear  did  note 
His  purpose,  proffering  my  own  food  to  him, 
The  eager  jilumes  subsided  on  his  throat — 
He  came  where  that  bright  child  of  sea  did  swim. 

And  o'er  it  c;ist  in  peace  his  shadow  broad  and  dim. 

xxviir. 

"  This  wakened  me,  it  gave  me  human  strength ; 
And  hope,  I  know  not  whence  or  wherefore,  rose, 
But  I  resumed  my  ancient  powers  at  length; 
My  spirit  felt  again  like  one  of  those. 
Like  thine,  whose  fate  it  is  to  make  the  woes 
Of  humankind  their  prey — what  was  this  cave  ! 
Its  deep  foundati(m  no  firm  purpose  knows 
Immutable,  resistless,  strong  to  save,  [grave. 

Like  mind  while  yet  it  mocks  the  all-devouring 


100 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


XXIX. 

'•  And  whore  was  Laoii  ?  nii^ht  my  hfnrt  be  dead, 
While  that  far  dearer  heart  could  move  and  be  1 
Or  wliilst  over  the  earth  the  pall  was  spread, 
Which  I  had  sworn  to  rend  1    I  mi^ht  be  free, 
Could  I  but  win  that  friendly  bird  to  me, 
To  bring  nic  ropes;  and  long  in  vain  I  sought 
By  intercourse  of  mutual  imagery 
Of  objects,  if  such  aid  he  could  be  taught ; 
But  fruit,  and  flowers,  and  boughs,  yet  never  ropes 
he  brought. 

"We  live  in  our  own  world,  and  mine  was  made 
From  glorious  phantasies  of  liope  departed  : 
Aye,  we  are  darkened  with  their  floating  shade, 
Or  cast  a  lustre  on  them — time  imparted 
Such  power  to  me,  I  be<;ame  fearless-hearted ; 
My  eye  and  voice  grew  firm,  calm  was  my  mind, 
And  piercing,  like  the  morn,  now  it  has  darted 
Its  lustre  on  all  hidden  things,  behind  [wind. 

Yon  dim  and  fading  clouds  which  load  the  weary 

XXXI. 

"  Mv  mind  became  the  book  through  which  I  grew 
Wise  iu  all  human  wisdom,  and  its  cave 
Which  like  a  niino  I  rifled  through  and  through. 
To  me  the  keeping  of  its  sccret.s  gave — ■ 
One  mind,  the  type  of  all,  the  moveless  wave 
Whose  calm  reflects  all  moving  things  that  ai-e, 
Necessit)',  and  love,  and  life,  the  grave. 
And  .sympathy,  fountains  of  hopt^  and  fear; 

Justice,  and  truth,  and  time,  and  the  world's  natural 
sphere. 

XXXII. 
"  And  on  the  sand  would  I  make*  signs  to  range 
These  woofs,  as  they  were  woven,  of  my  thought ; 
Clear  elemental  shapes,  whose  smallest  change 
A  subtler  language  within  language  wrought : 
The  key  of  truths  which  once  were  dimly  taught 
In  old  Crotona ; — and  sweet  melodies 
Of  love,  in  that  lone  solitude  I  caught  [eyes 

From  mine  own  voice  in  dream,  when  thy  dear 

Shone  through  my  sleep,  and  did  that  utterance 
harmonize. 

XXXIII. 

<•  Thv  songs  were  winds  whereon  I  fled  at  will, 
As  in  a  winged  chariot,  o'er  the  plain 
Of  crystal  youth  ;  and  thou  wert  there  to  fill 
My  heart  with  joy,  and  there  we  sate  again 
On  the  gray  margin  of  the  glimmering  main, 
Happy  as  then  but  wiser  far,  for  we 
Smiled  on  the  flowery  grave  in  which  were  lain 
Fear,  Faith,  and  Slavery ;  and  mankind  was  free. 
Equal,  and  pure,  and  wise,  in  w  isdom's  projiheey. 

XXXIV. 

"  For  to  my  will  my  fancies  were  as  slaves 
To  do  their  sweet  and  subtle  ministries ; 
And  oft  from  that  bright  fountain's  shadowy  waves 
They  would  make  human  throngs  gather  and  rise 
To  combat  with  my  overflowing  eyes. 
And  voice  made  deep  with  i)assion — thus  I  grew 
Familiar  with  the  shock  and  the  surj)rise 
And  war  of  earthly  minds,  from  which  I  drew 
The  power  which  has  been  mine  to  frame  their 
thoughts  anew. 


XXXV. 

"  And  thus  mj'  prison  was  the  populous  earth — 
M'here  I  saw — even  as  misery  dreams  of  mom 
Before  the  e-ast  lias  gi^•en  its  glor}'  Irirth — 
Religion's  ])omp  made  desolate  liy  the  scorn 
Of  Wisdom's  faintest  smile,  and  thrones  uptom, 
And  dwellings  of  mild  people  interspersed 
With  Undivided  fields  of  ripening  corn, 
And  love  made  free, — a  hojie  which  we  have  nurst 
Even  with  our  blood  and  tears, — until  its  glory  burst. 

xxxvr. 

"  All  is  not  lost !     There  is  some  recompense 
For  hope  whose  fountain  can  he  thus  profound. 
Even  throned  Evil's  splendid  impotence. 
Girt  by  its  hell  of  power,  the  secret  sound  [bound 
Of  hymns    to   truth   and    freedom,  —  the  dread 
Of  life  and  death  passed  fearlessly  and  well, 
Dungeons  wherein  the  high  resolve  is  found, 
Racks  which  degraded  woman's  greatness  tell. 
And  what  may  else  be  good  and  irresistible. 

XXXTII. 

"  Such  are  the  thoughts  which,  like  the  fires  that 
In  storm-encompassed  Isles,  we  cherish  yet    [flare 
In  this  dark  ruin — such  were  mine  even  there ; 
As  in  its  sleep  some  odorous  violet, 
W^hilc  yet  its  leaves  with  nightly  dews  are  wet, 
Breathes  in  prophetic  dreams  of  day's  uprise. 
Or.  as  ere  Scythian  frost  in  fear  has  met 
Spring's  messengers  descendhig  fiom  the  skies. 
The  buds  foreknow  their  life — this  hope  must  ever 
rise. 

XXXVIII. 

"  So  years  had  past,  when  sudden  earthquake  rent 
The  depth  of  ocean,  and  the  cavern  crackt 
With  sound,  as  if  the  world's  wide  continent 
Had  fallen  in  universal  rum  WTackt; 
And  through  the  cleft  streamed  in  one  cataract 
The  stifling  waters : — when  I  woke,  the  flood, 
Whose  banded  waves  that  ciystal  cave  had  sacked, 
Was  ebbing  round  me,  and  my  bright  abode 
Before  me  yawned — a  chasm  desert,  and  bare,  and 
broad. 

XXXIX. 

"  Above  me  was  the  sky,  beneath  the  sea : 
I  stood  ijpon  a  point  of  shattered  stone. 
And  heard  loose  rocks  rushing  tuinultuously 
With  splash  and  shock  into  the  deep — anon 
All  ceased,  and  there  was  silence  widq  and  lone. 
I  felt  that  I  was  tree !     The  Ocean-spray 
Quivered  beneath  my  feet,  the  broad  Heaven  shone 
Around,  and  in  my  hair  the  w  inds  did  ))lay. 
Lingering  as  they  pursued  their  imimpeded  way. 

XL. 

"  My  spirit  moved  upon  the  sea  like  wind 
"W'hich  round  some  thymy  cape  will  lag  and  hover, 
Though  it  can  wake  the  still  cloud,  and  unbind 
The  strength  of  tempest :  day  was  almost  over, 
When  through  the  fading  light  I  could  discover 
A  ship  approaching — its  white  sails  were  fed 
With  the  north  wind — its  moving  shade  did  cover 
The  twilight  deep ; — the  mariners  in  dread 
Cast  anchor  when  they  saw  neW  rocks  around  them 
spread. 


"  And  when  they  saw  one  sitting  on  a  crag, 
Tiu-y  sent  a  l)oat  to  jnc ; — the  sailors  rowed 
In  awe  througli  many  a  new  and  fearful  jag 
Of  overhanging  rock,  through  which  there  llowcd 
The  foam  ofsti-eams  that  cannot  make'abodej 
They  came  and  questioned  me,  but,  when  they 

hcaal 
My  voice,  they  became  siK^nt,  and  they  stood 
And  moved  as  men  in  whom  new  hive  had  stirred 
Deep  thoughts ;  so  to  the  ship  we  past  without  a  word. 

CANTO  VIIL 
I. 

f'l  SATE  beside  the  steersman  t!\en,  and,  gazing 
Upon  tlie  west,  cried, '  Spread  the  sails  !  behohl ! 
The  sinking  moon  is  hkc  a  watch  tower  blazing 
Over  the  mountains  yet; — the  City  of  Gold 
Yon  Cape  alone  does  fi-om  the  sight  withhold  ; 
The  stream  is  fleet — the  north  breathes  steadily 
Beneath  the  stars ;  they  tremble  with  the  cold ! 
Ye  cannot  rest  upon  the  dreary  sea ; — 
Haste,  haste  to  the  warm  home  of  happier  destiny  !' 

II. 
"  Tlie  Mariners  obeyed — the  Captain  stood 
Aloof,  and,  whispering  to  the  Pilot,  said, 
'  Alas,  alas !  I  fear  we  are  pursued 
By  wicked  ghosts :  a  Phantom  of  the  Dead, 
The  night  before  we  sailed,  came  to  my  bed 
In  dream,  like  that !'     The  Pilot  then  replied, 
'  It  cannot  be — she  is  a  human  Maid — ■ 
Her  low  voice  makes  you  weep — she  is  some  bride. 
Or  daughter  of  high  birth — she  can  be  nought  beside.' 

III. 
"  Wc  past  the  islets,  borne  by  wiiid  and  stream, 
And  as  we  sailed  the  Mariners  came  near 
And  thronged  around  to  listen ; — 'in  the  gleam 
Of, the  pale  moon  I  stood,  as  one  whom  fear 
May  not  attaint,  and  my  calm  voice  did  rear : 
'  Ye  are  all  human — yon  broad  moon  gives  light 
To  millions  who  the  selfsame  likeness  wear. 
Even  while  I  speak — beneath  this  very  night. 
Their  thoughts  flow  on  like   ours,  in   sadness  or 
delight. 

IV. 

" '  WTiat  dream  3'e  1  Your  own  hands  have  built  a 
Even  for  yourselves  on  a  beloved  shore  :      [home. 
For  some,  fond  eyes  are  pining  till  they  come, 
How  they  will  greet  him  when  his  toils  are  o'er, 
And  laughing  babes  rush  from  the  well-known  door ! 
Is  this  your  care  ?   ye  toil  for  your  own  good — • 
Ye  feel  and  thuik — has  some  immortal  power 
•  Such  purposes  ?  or  in  a  human  mood,   [solitude  ? 
Dream  ye  some   Power  thus   builds  for  man  in 

T. 

« '  WHiat  is  tliat  Power?  Ye  mock  yourselves,  and 
A  human  heart  to  what  ye  cannot  know:  [give 
As  if  the  cause  of  life  could  think  and  livel 
'Twcreasif  man' sown  works  should  feel,  and  show 
The  hopes,  and  fears,  and  thoughts,  from  which  they 
And  he  be  like  to  them.  Lo!  Plague  is  free  [flow, 
To  waste,  Blisrht,  Poison,  Earthquake,  Hail,  and 
Disease,  and  Want,  and  worse  Necessity  [Snow, 
Of  hate  and  ill,  and  Pride,  and  Fear,  and  Tyranny. 


"'What    is    that  Power?     Some     moonstruck 

,    sophist  stood 
Watching  the  shade  from  his  own  soul  upthrown 
Fill  heaven  and  darken  Eartli,  and  in  such  mood 
The  Form  ho  saw  and  worshipped  was  his  own, 
His  likeness  in  the  world's  vast  mirror  shown  ; 
And  'twere  an  innocent  dream,  but  that  a  fiith 
Nursed  by  fear's  dew  of  poison,  grows  thereon. 
And  that  men  say,  that  Power  has  chosen  Death 
On  all  who  scorn  its  laws,  to  wreak  immortal  wrath. 

VI  r. 

« '  Men  say  that  they  themselves  have  heard  and 
seen,  [things, 

Or  known  from    others  who   have  known  such 
A  Shade,  a  Form,which  Earth  and  Heaven  between 
Wields  an  in\'isiblc  rod — rthat  Priests  and  Kings, 
Custom,  domestic  sway,  ay,  all  that  brings, 
Man's  firee-born  soul  beneath  the  oppressor's  heel, 
Arc  his  strong  ministers,  and  that  the  stings 
Of  death  'will  make  the  wise  his  vengeance  feel, 

Though  truth   and  virtue   arm  their  hearts  with 
tenfold  steel. 

viii. 

-  "  '  And  it  is  said,  this  Power  will  punish  wrong ; 
Yes,  add  despair  to  crime,  and  pain  to  pain  ! 
And  deepest  hell,  and  deathless  snakes  among, 
AV'ill  bind  the  wretch  on  whom  is  fixed  a  stain, 
Which,  like  a  plague,  a  burden,  and  a  bane. 
Clung  to  him  while  he  lived; — for  love  and  hate, 
Virtue  and  vice,  they  say  are  difference  vain — 
The  will  of  strength  is  right — this  human  state 

Tyrants,  that  tliey  may  rule,  with  lies  thus  desolate. 

IX. 

"  '  Alas,  what  strength  1   Opinion  is  more  frail 
Than  yon  dim  cloud  now  fading  on  the  moon 
Even  while  we  gaze,  though  it  awhile  avail 
To  hide  the  orb  of  truth — and  every  throne 
Of  Earth  or  Heaven,  though  shadow  rests  thereon, 
One  shape  of  many  names  : — for  this  ye  plough 
The  barren  waves  of  ocean  ;  hence  each  one 
Is  slave  or  tyrant ;  all  betray  and  bow, 
Command,  or  kill,  or  fear,  or  wreak,  or  sufibr  wo. 

X. 

" '  Its  names  are  each  a  sign  which  malvcth  holy 
All  power — ay,  the  ghost,  the  dream,  the  shade. 
Of  power — lust,' falschood,hate, and  pride,  and  folly; 
The  pattern  whence  all  fraud  and  wrong  is  made, 
A  law  to  which  mankind  has  been  betrayed  ; 
And  human  love,  is  as  the  name  well  known 
Of  a  dear  mother,  whom  the  murderer  laid 
In  bloodv  grave,  and,  into  darkness  thrown. 
Gathered  her  wildered  babes  around  liim  as  his  own. 

XI. 

"  '  O  love  !  who  to  the  hearts  of  wandering  men 
Art  as  the  calm  to  Ocean's  weaiy  waves ! 
Justice,  or  truth,  or  joy  !  thou  only  can 
From  slavery  and  religion's  labyrinth  cares 
Guide  us,  as  one  clear  star  the  seaman  saves. 
To  give  to  all  an  equal  share  of  good. 
To  track-  the  stcjis  of  freedom,   though  through 
She  pass,  to  suffer  all  in  patit;nt  mood,       [graves 
To  weep  for  crime,  thoughstained  with  thy  friend's 
dearest  blood. 

i2 


102 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


'•  •  To  feci  the  peace  of  srlf-contcntnipnt's  lot, 
To  own  all  symiiathies,  anil  outra;^c  none, 
And.  in  the  inmost  bowers  of  sense  and  thought, 
Tntil  life's  sunny  day  is  quite  gone  down, 
To  sit  and  smile  witli  Joy,  or,  not  alone, 
To  kiss  salt  tears  from  the  worn  cheek  of  Wo ; 
To  live,  as  if  to  love  and  live  were  one, — 
This  is  not  faith  or  law,  nor  those  who  bow 
To  thrones  on  Heaven  or  Earth,  such  dcsthiy  may 
know. 

■XIII. 

'•'  But  children  near  their  parents  tremble  now, 
Because  they  must  obey — one  rules  another. 
And  as  one  Power  rules  both  high  and  low. 
So  man  is  made  Uie  captive  of  his  brother. 
And  hate  is  throned  on  high  with  Fear  her  mother. 
Above  the  Highest — and  those  fountain-cells. 
Whence  love  yet  flowed  when  faith  had  choked 

all  other, 
Are  darkened — Woman,  as  the  bond-slave,  dwells 
Of  man,  a  slave ;  and  hfe  is  poisoned  in  its  wells. 

XIV. 

" '  Man  seeks  for  gold  in  mines,  that  he  may  weave 
A  lasting  chain  for  his  own  slavery ; — 
In  fear  and  restless  care  that  he  may  live 
He  toils  for  others,  who  must  ever  be 
The  joyless  thralls  of  like  captivity  ; 
He  murders,  for  his  chiefs  delight  in  ruin; 
He  builds  the  altar,  that  its  idol's  fee 
May  be  his  very  blood  ;  he  is  pursuing      [doing. 
0,  blind  and  willing  wretch  !   his  own  obscure  un- 

XV. 

" '  Woman ! — she  is  his  slave,  she  has  become 
A  thing  I  weep  to  speak — the  child  of  scorn, 
The  outcast  of  a  desolated  home. 
Falsehood  and  fear,  and  toil,  like  waves  have  worn 
Channels  upon  hor  cheek,  which  smiles  adorn. 
As  calm  decks  the  false  Ocean  : — well  ye  know 
What  Woman  is,  for  none  of  Woman  bom 
Can  choose  but  drain  the  bitter  dregs  of  wo. 
Which  ever  from  the  oppressed  to  the  oppressors 
flow. 

XVI. 

"  <  This  need  not  be  ;  ye  might  aVise,  and  will 
That  gold   should    lose  its  power,   and  thrones 

their  glory  ; 
That  love,  which  none  may  bind,  be  free  to  fill 
The  world,  like  liglit ;  and  evil  faith,  i^rown  hoary 
With  crime,  be  quenched  and  die. — Yon  promon- 
Even  now  eclipses  the  descending  moon ! —  [tory 
Dungeons  and  palaces  arc  transitory — 
High  temples  fade  like  vapour — Man  alone 
Remains,  whose  will  has  power  when  all  beside 
is  gone. 

XVII. 

" '  Let  all  be  free  and  equal ! — From  your  hearts 
I  feci  an  echo ;  through  my  inmost  frame 
Like  sweetest  sound,  seeking  its  mate,  it  darts — - 
Whence  coinc  ye,  friends  ?  Alas,  I  caiinot  name 
All  that  I  read  of  sorrow,  toil,  and  .shame. 
On  your  worn  faces;  as  in  legends  old 
Which  make  inmiort^d  the  disastrous  fame 
Of  conquerors  and  impostors  false  and  bold. 
The  discord  of  your  hearts  I  in  your  looks  behold. 


"'  Whence  come  ye,  friends  !  from  pounng  human 

blood 
Forth  on  the  earth  ?  or  bring  ye  steel  and  gold. 
That  Kings  may  dupe  and  slay  the  multitude  ? 
Or  from  the  famished  poor.  ])ale,  weak,  and  cold, 
Bear  ye  the  earnings  of  their  toil  1   unfold  ! 
Si)eak  !  arcyour hands  in  slaughter's  sanguine  hue 
8tain'd  freshly?  have  your  hearts  in  guile  grown  old  ? 
Know  yourselves  thus  ?  ye  shall  be  pure  as  dew, 
And  I  will  be  a  friend  and  sister  unto  you. 

XIX. 

"  '  Di.sguise  it  not — we  have  one  human  h;>art — 
All  mortal  thoughts  confess  a  conunon  home  : 
Blush  not  for  what  may  to  thy.sclf  impart 
Stains  of  inevitable  crime  :  tlie  doom 
Is  this,  which  has,  or  may,  or  must,  become 
Thine,  and  all  humankind's.     Ye  arc  the  spoil 
Which  Time  thus  marks  for  the  devouring  tomb. 
Thou  and  thy  thoughts  and  they,  and  all  the  toil 
Wherev\'ith  ye  twine  the  rings  of  life's  perpetual 
coil. 

XX. 

"<  Disguise  it  not — ye  blush  for  what  ye  hate, 
And  Enmity  is  .sister  unto  Shame  ; 
Look  on  your  mind — it  is  the  book  of  fate — 
Ah  !  it  is  dark  with  many  a  blazoned  name 
Of  misery — all  are  mirrors  of  the  same; 
But  the  dark  fiend  who  with  his  iron  pen 
Dijiped  in  scorn's  fiery  poison,  makes  liis  fame 
Enduring  there,  would  o'er  the  heads  of  men 
Pass  hanidcss,  if  they  scorned  to  make  their  hearts 
his  den. 

XXI. 

"<Yes,  it  is  Hate,  that  shapeless  ficndly  thing 
Of  many  names,  all  evil,  some  divine,  , 

Whom  self-contempt  arms  with  a  mortal  sting; 
Which,  when  the  heart  its  snaky  folds  entwine 
Is  wasted  quite,  and  when  it  doth  repine 
To  gorge  such  bitter  ]irey,  on  all  beside 
It  turns  with  ninefold  rage,  as  with  its  twine 
When  Amphisbrona  some  f  lir  bird  has  tied. 
Soon  o'er  the  putrid  ma.ss  he  threats  on  every  side. 

XXII. 

" '  Reproach  not  tliine  own  soul,  but  know  thyself, 
Nor  hate  another's  crime,  nor  loathe  thine  own. 
It  is  the  dark  idolatry  of  self,  [gone, 

Which,  when  our  thoughts  and  actions  once  are 
Demands  that  man  should  weep,  and  bleed,  and 
O  vacant  expiation  !  be  at  rest. —  [groan  : 

The  past  is  Death's,  the  future  is  thine  own ; 
And  lov(!  and  joy  can  make  the  foulest  lireast 
A  paradise  of  flowers,  where  peace  might  build  her 
nest.' 

XXIII. 

"'  Speak  thou!  whence comeyel' — A  Youth  made 
'  Wearily,  wearily  o'er  the  boundless  deep    [reply, 
We  sail : — thou  reade.st  well  the  misery 
Told  in  these  faded  eyes,  but  much  doth  sleep 
"Within,  which  there  t!ie  poor  heart  loves  to  keep, 
Or  dar(>  not  write  on  the  dishonoured  brow  ; 
Even  from  our  childhood  have  we  learned  to  steep 
The  bread  of  slaverv'  in  tlie  tears  of  wo. 
And  never  dreamed  of  hope  or  refuge  until  now. 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


103 


XXIV. 

"'Yes — r  must  speak- — my  secret  would  have 

perished. 
Even  with  the  heart  it  wasted,  as  a  brand 
Fades  in  the  dyin":  flame  whose  life  it  elicrished, 
But  that  no  human  bosom  can  withstand 
Thee,  wondrous  Lady,  and  the  mild  eonimaud 
Of  tliy  keen  eyes : — yes,  we  are  wretched  slaves, 
Who  from  their  wonted  loves  and  native  land 
Are  reft,  and  bear  o'er  the  dividing  waves 
The  unregarded  prey  of  calm  and  happy  graves. 

XXV. 

«  '  We  drag  afar  from  pastoral  vales  the  fairest 
Among  the  daughters  of  those  mountains  lone, 
We  drag  them  there,  where  all  things  best  and 
rarest  [gone 

Arc  stained  and  ti-ampled  : — years  have  come  and 
Since,  like  the  ship  which  bears  me,  I  have  known 
No  thought ; — but  now  the  eyes  of  one  dear  Maid 
On  mine  with  light  of  mutu;il  love  have  shown — 
She  is  my  Iife,-^I  am  but  as  the  shade 
Of  her, — a  smoke  sent  up  from  ashes,  soon  to  fade. 

XXVI. 

" '  For  she  must  perish  in  the  tyrant's  hall — • 
Alas,  alas!' — He  ceased,  and  by  the  sail 
Sate  cowering — but  his  sobs  were  heard  by  all. 
And  still  before  the  ocean  and  the  gale 
The  ship  that  fled  fast  till  the  stars  'gan  to  fail. 
All  round  mc  gathered  with  mute  countenance. 
The  Seamen  gazed,  the  Pilot,  worn  and  pale 
With  toil,  the  Captain  with  gray  locks,  whose  glance 
Met  mine  in  restless  awe — they  stood  as  in  a  trance. 

XXVII. 

« '  Recede  not!  pause  not  now  !  thou  art  grown  old, 
But  HojDe  will  make  thee  young,  for   Hope  and 

Youth 
Are  children  of  one  mother,  even  Love — behold  ! 
The  eternal  stars  gaze  on  us! — is  the  truth 
Within  3'our  soul  1  care  for  your  own,  or  ruth 
For  other's  sutrerings"?  do  ye  thirst  to  bear 
A  heart  which  not  the  serpent  custom's  tooth 
May  violate  1 — Be  free  !  and  even  here. 

Swear  to  be  firm  till  death  !'    They  cried,  <  We 
swear  !  we  swear  !' 
XXVIII. 
"  The  very  darkness  shook,  as  with  a  blast 
Of  subterranean  thunder  at  the  cry  ; 
The  hollow  shore  its  thousand  echoes  cast 
Into  the  night,  as  if  the  sea,  and  sky. 
And  earth,  rejoiced  with  new-born  liberty  : 
For  in  that  name  they  swore  !  Bolts  were  undrawn. 
And  on  the  deck,  with  unaccustomed  eye 
The  captives  gazing  stood,  and  everyone  Tshone. 

Shrank  as  the  inconstanttorch  upon  her  countenance 
XXIX. 
" '  They  were  earth's  purest  children ,  young  and  fair. 
With  eyes  the  shrines  of  unawakened  thought, 
And  brows  as  bright  as  spring  or  morning,  ere 
Dark  time  had  there  its  evil  legend  wrought 
In  characters  of  cloud  which  wither  not. — 
The  change  w;us  like  a  dream  to  them  ;  but  soon 
They  knew  the  glory  of  their  altered  lot. 
In  the  bright  wisdom  of  youth's  breathless  noon. 

Sweet  talk,  and  smiles,  and  siglis,  all  bosoms  did 
attune. 


"  But  one  was  mute,  her  checks  and  lips  most  fair, 
Changing  tiieir  hue  like  lilies  newly  blown, 
Beneath  a  bright  acacia's  shadowy  hair, 
Waved  by  the  wind  amid  the  sunny  noon. 
Showed  that  her  so\d  was  (luivcring ;  and  full  soon 
'I'hat  Youth  arose,  and  breathlessly  did  look 
On  her  and  me,  as  for  some- speechless  boon: 
I  smiled,  and  both  their  hands  in  mine  I  took. 
And  felt  a  soft  delight  ti'om  what  their  spirits  shook. 

CANTO  IX.. 
I. 

"That  night  we  anchored  in  a  woody  hay. 
And  sleep  no  more  around  us  dared  to  hover 
Than,  when  all  doubt  and  fear  has  past  away, 
It  shades  the  couch  of  some  imrcsisting  lover. 
Whose  heart  is  now  at  rest :  thus  night  past  over 
In  mutual  joy  : — around,  a  forest  grew 
Of  po])lars  and  dark  oaks,  whose  shade  did  cover 
The  waning  stars,  prankt  in  the  waters  blue,  [flew. 

And  trembled  in  the  wind  which  from  the  morning 
II. 
"  The  joyous  mariners,  and  each  free  maiden. 
Now  brought  from  the  deep  forest  many  a  bough, 
With  woodland  spoil  most  innocently  laden  ; 
Soon  wreaths  of  budding  foliage  seemed  to  flow 
Over  the  mast  and  sails,  the  stern  and  prow 
Were  canopied  with  blooming  boughs, — the  while 
On  the  slant  sun's  path  o'er  the  waves  we  go 
Rejoicing,  like  the  dwellers  of  an  isle     [to  smile. 

Doomed  to  pursue  those  waves  that  cannot  cease 
III. 
"  The  many  ships  spotting  the  dark  blue  deep 
With  snowy  sails,  fled  fast  as  ours  came  nigh, 
In  fear  and  wonder ;  and  on  every  steep 
Thousands  did  gaze,  they  heard  the  startling  cry, 
Like  earth's  own  voice  lifted  unconquerably 
To  all  her  children,  the  unbounded  mirth, 
The  glorious  joy  of  thy  name — Liberty  ! 
They  heard  ! — As  o'er  the  mountains  of  the  earth 

From  peak  to  peak  leap  on  the  beams  of  morning's 
birth: 

IV. 

"  So  from  that  cry  over  the  boundless  hills, 
Sudden  was  caught  one  universal  sound. 
Like  a  volcano's  voice,  whose  thunder  fills 
Remotest  skies, — such  glorious  madness  found 
A  path  through  human  hearts  with  stream  wliich 

drowned 
Its  struggling  fears  and  cares,  dark  custom's  brood  ; 
They  knew  not  whence  it  came,  but  felt  around 
A  wide  contagion  poured — they  called  aloud 
On  Liberty — .that  name  li\ed  on  the  sunny  flood. 

V. 

"We  reached  the  port — alas!  from  manv  spirits 
The  wisdom  which  had  waked  that  cr\',  was  fled. 
Like  the  brief  glory  which  dark  Heaven  inherits 
From  the  false  dawn,  which  fades  ere  it  is  spread. 
Upon  the  night's  devouring  darkness  shed : 
Yet  soon  bright  day  will  burst — even  like  a  chasm 
Of  fire,  to  burn  the  shrouds  outworn  and  dead, 
Which  wrap  the  world ;  a  wide  enthusiasm, 
To  cleanse  the  fevered  world  as  with  an  earth- 
quake's spasm ! 


104 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


'•  I  walked  throufrh  the  great  City  then,  but  free 
From  sliame  or  fear;  tliose  toil-worn  Mariners 
And  liaj^jy  Maidc-ns  did  eiii-oni|)ass  me; 
And  like  u  suhtcrraui'tin  wind  tliat  stirs 
Some  lonst  among  caves,  the  hopes  and  fears 
From  every  human  soul,  a  murmur  strange 
Made  as  I  past;  and  inany  wept,  with  tears 
Of  joy  and  awe,  and  winged  thoughts  did  range, 
And  iialf-extinguisheJ  words,  wliicli  prophesied  of 
change. 

VII. 

"  For,  with  strong  speech  I  tore  the  veil  that  hid 
Nature,  and  Truth,  and  liiberty,  and  Love, — 
As  one  who  from  some  mountain's  pyramid, 
Points  to  the  unrisiMi  sun  ! — the  shades  approve 
His  truth,  and  llee  from  every  stream  and  grove. 
Thus,  gentle  thoughts  did  many  a  bosom  fdl, — 
VS'isdom  the  mail  of  tried  affections  wove 
For  many  a  heart,  and  tameless  scorn  of  ill,  [will. 
Thrice  steeped  iii  molten  steel  the  unconquerable 

VIII. 

"  Some  said  I  was  a  maniac  wild  and  lost ; 
Some,  that  I  scarce  had  risen  from  the  grave 
The  Prophet's  virgin  l»ride,  a  heavenly  ghost : — 
Some  said  I  was  a  fiend  from  my  weird  cave, 
Who  had  stolen  human  shape,  and  o'er  the  wave, 
The  forest,  and  the  moxintain,  came  ; — some  said 
I  was  the  child  of  God,  sent  down  to  save 
Women  from  bonds  and  death,  and  on  my  head 
The  burden  of  their  sins  would  frightfully  be  laid. 

IX. 

"But  soon  my  human  words  found  sympathy 
In  human  hearts:  the  purest  and  the  best. 
As  friend  with  friend  made  common  cause  with  me, 
And  they  were  few,  but  resolute ; — the  rest, 
Ere  yet  success  the  entt^qirise  had  blest, 
Lcagiied  with  me  in  their  hearts ; — their  meals, 

their  slumber, 
Their  hourly  occupations,  were  possest 
By  hopes  which  I  had  Urmed  to  overnumber 
Those  hosts  of  meaner  cares,  which  life's  strong 

W'ings  encumber. 

X. 

"  But  chiefly  women,  whom  my  voice  did  waken 
From  their  cold,  careless,  willing  slavery. 
Sought  me :   one  truth  their  dreary  prison  has 

shaken. 
They  looked  around,  and  lo !  they  became  free  ! 
Their  many  tyrants  sitting  desolately 
In  slave-deserted  halls,  could  none  restrain  ; 
For  wrath's  red  fire  had  withered  in  the  eye, 
Whose  lightning  once  was  death,-nor  fear.nor  gain 
Could  t(Mni)t  one  captive  now  to  lock  another's 
chain. 

XT. 

"  Those  wiio  were  sent  to  bind  me,  wept,  and  felt 
Their  minds  outsdar  the  bonds  which  clasped  them 
Even  as  a  waxen  shape  may  waste  and  melt  [round. 
In  the  while  furnace  ;  and  a  visioned  swound. 
A  ])ause  of  hope  and  awe,  the  City  bound, 
Which,  like  the  silence  of  a  tempest's  birth, 
When  in  its  awful  shadow  it  has  wound 
The  sun,  the  wind,  the  ocean,  and  the  earth. 
Hung  terrible,  ere  yet  the  lightnings  have  leapt  forth. 


"  Like  clouds  inwoven  in  the  silent  sky, 
By  winds  from  distant  regions  niceting  there, 
Jn  the  high  name  of  truth  and  liberty. 
Around  the  City  millions  gathered  were. 
By  hopes  which  sj)rajig  from  many  a  hidden  lair; 
Words,  which  the  lore  of  truth  in  hues  of  grace 
Arrayed,  thine  own  wild  songs  which  in  the  air 
I-ike  homeless  odours  floated,  and  the  name 
Of  thee,  and  many  a  tongue  which  thou  hadst  dijipcd 
in  flame. 

XIII. 

"  The  Tyrant  knew  his  power  was  gone,  but  Fear, 
The  nurse  of  Vengeance,  bade  him  vviiit  the  event — 
That  perfidy  and  custom,  gold  and  prayer. 
And  whatso'er,  when  force  is  impotent, 
To  fraud  the  sceptre  of  the  world  has  lent. 
Might,  as  he  judged,  confirm  his  failing  sway. 
Therefore  throughout  the  streets,  the  Priests  he 
To  curse  the  rebels. — To  their  gods  did  they  [sent 
For  Earthquake,  Plague,  and  Want,  kneel  in  the 
public  way. 

XIV. 

"  And  grave  and  hoarv'  men  were  bribed  to  tell 
From  seats  where  law  is  made  the  slave  of  wrong, 
How  glorious  Athens  in  her  splendour  fell, 
Because  her  sons  were  free, — and  that  among 
Mankind,  the  many  to  the  few  belong. 
By  Heaven,  and  Nature,  and  Necessity. 
They  said,  that  age  was  truth,  and  that  the  young 
Marred  with  wild  hopes  the  peace  of  slavery. 
With  which  old  times  and  men  had  quelled  the  vain 
and  free. 

XV. 

"  And  with  the  falsehood  of  their  poisonous  lij)s 
They  breathed  on  the  enduring  memory 
Of  sages  and  of  bards  a  brief  eclipse  ; 
There  was  one  teacher,  whom  necessity 
Had  armed  with  strength  and  wrong  against  ;nan- 
His  slave  and  his  avenger  aye  to  be ;  [kind, 

That  we  were  weak  and  sinful,  frail  and  blind, 
And  that  the  will  of  one  was  peace,  and  we 
Should  seek  for  nought  on  earth  but  toil  and  miserj'. 

XVI. 

"  '  For  thus  we  might  avoid  the  hell  hereafter.' 
So  spake  the  hypocrites,  who  cursed  and  lied  ; 
Alas,  their  sway  was  past,  and  tears  and  laughter 
Clung  to  their  hoary  hair,  withering  the  pride 
Which  in  their  hollow  hearts  dared  still  abide ; 
And  yet  oliscener  slaves  with  smoother  brow, 
And  sneers  on  tlu-ir  strait  lips,  thin,  blue,  and 

wide. 
Said,  that  the  rule  of  men  was  over  now,     [bow ; 
And  hence,  the  subject  world  to  woman's  will  must 

XVII. 

"  And  gold  was  scattered  through  the  streets,  and 
Flowed  at  a  hundred  feasts  within  the  wall.     [X^ine 
In  vain  !  The  steady  towers  in  Heaven  did  shine 
As  they  were  wont,  nor  at  the  priestly  call 
Left  Plague  her  ban(|uet  in  the  /Ethiojt's  hall. 
Nor  Famiiu^  from  the  rich  man's  portal  came. 
Where  at  her  ease  she  ever  preys  on  all 
Who  throng  to  kneel  for  food :  nor  fear,  nor  shame, 
Nor  faith,  nor  discord, lUnuned  hope's  newly-kiudlcd 
flame. 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


105 


XVTII. 

"  For  Rolil  was  as  a  god  whose  faith  IioQ;aii 
To  fiulo,  so  that  its  worshippers  were  few, 
And  Faith  itself,  which  in  the  heart  of  man 
(rives  shape,  voice,  name,  to  spectral  Terror,  knew 
Its  downfall,  as  the  altars  lonelier  grew, 
Till  the  Priests  stood  alone  within  the  fane; 
The  shafts  of  falsehood  unpolliitini;  Hew, 
And  the,  cold  sneers  of  calumny  were  vain 
The^unioh  of  the  free  with  discord's  brand  to  stain. 

XIX. 

"The  rest  thou  knowest. — Lo! — we  two  are  here — 
We  have  survived  a  ruin  wide  and  dcej) — 
Strange  thoughts  are  mine. — I  cannot  grieve  nor 
Sitting  with  thee  upon  this  lonely  steep        [fear, 
I  smile,  though  human  love  should  make  me  weep. 
We  have  survived  a  joy  that  knows  no  sorrow, 
And  I  do  feel  a  mighty  calmness  creep 
Over  my  heart,  which  can  no  longer  borrow 
Its  hues  from  chance  or  change,  dark  children  of 
to-morrow. 

XX. 

"We  know  not  what  will  come — yet,  Laon,  dearest, 
Cythna  shall  be  the  prophetess  of  love, 
Her  lips  shall  rob  thee  of  the  grace  thou  wcarest, 
To  hide  thy  heart,  and  clothe  the  shapes  which  rove 
Within  the  homeless  future's  wintry  grove  : 
For  I  now,  sitting  thus  beside  thee,  seem 
Even  with  thy  breath  and  blood  to  live  and  move, 
And  violence  and  wrong  are  as  a  dream    [stream. 
Which  rolls  from  steadfast  truth,  an  unreturning 

XXI. 

"  The  blasts  of  autumn  drive  the  winged  seeds 
Over  the  earth, — next  come  the  snows,  and  rivin,' 
And  frosts,  ami  storms,  which  dreary  winter  leads 
Out  of  his  Scythian  cave,  a  savage  train; 
Behold  !   Spring  sweeps  over  the  world  again, 
Shedding  soft  dews  from  her  a?therial  wings ; 
Flowers  on  the  mountains,  fruits  over  the  plain. 
And  nmsic  on  the  waves  and  woods  she  flings. 
And  love  on  all  that  lives,  and  calm  on  lifeless 
things. 

XXII. 

"  O  Spring !  of  hope,  and  love,  and  youth,  and  glad- 
ness, 
Wind-winged  emblem !  brightest,  best,  and  fairest ! 
Whence  comest  thou,  when,  with  dark  winter's 

sadness 
The  tears  that  fade  in  sunny  smiles  thou  sharest  1 
Sister  of  joy  !  thou  art  the  child  who  wearest 
Thy  mother's  dying  smile,  tender  and  sweet ; 
Thy  mother  Autumn,  for  whose  grave  thou  bearest 
Fresh  flowers,  and  beams  like  flowers,  with  gentle 
feet,  [sheet. 

Disturbing  not  the  leaves  which  are  her  winding- 

XXIII. 

"Virtue,  and  Hope,  and  Love,  like  light  and  Heaven, 
Surround  the  world. — Wc  are  their  chosen  slaves. 
Has  not  the  whirlwind  of  our  spirit  driven   [cavcsl 
Truth's  deathless   germs  to    thought's    remotest 
Lo,  Winter  comes  ! — the  grief  of  many  graves, 
The  frost  of  death,  the  tempest  of  the  sword, 
The  flood  of  tyranny,  whose  sanguine  waves 
Stagnate  like  ice  at  Faith,  the  enchanter's  word. 
And  bind  all  human  hearts  in  its  repose  abhorred. 
14 


"The  seeds  arc  sleeping  in  the  soil :  meanwhile 
The  tyrant  peoples  dungeons  with  his  ])rey  ; 
Pale  victims  on  the  guarded  scaffold  smile 
Because  they  cannot  speak ;  and,  day  by  day. 
The  moon  of  wasting  Science  wanes  away 
Among  her  stars,  and  in  that  darkness  vast 
The  sons  of  earth  to  their  foul  idols  pray, 
And  gray  Priests  trium])h,and  like  blight  or  blast 
A  shade  of  selfish  care  o'er  human  looks  is  cast. 

XXV. 

«  This  is  the  Winter  of  the  world  ! — and  here 
We  die  even  as  the  winds  of  autumn  fade, 
Expiring  in  the  frore  and  foggy  air. —  [made 

Behold  !  Spring  comes,  though  wc  must  pass  who 
The  promise  of  its  birth, — even  as  the  shade 
Which  from  our  death,  as  from  a  mountain,  flings 
The  future,  a  broad  sunrise ;  thus  an-ayed 
As  with  the  plumes  of  overshadowing  wings. 
From  its  dark  gulf  of  chains,  Eai-th   hke  an  eagle 
springs. 

XXVI. 

"  0  dearest  love  !  we  shall  be  dead  and  cold 
Before  this  morn  may  on  the  world  arise  : 
Wouldst  thou  tine  glory  of  its  dawn  behold  1 
Alas  !  gaze  not  on  me,  but  turn  thine  eyes 
On  thine  own  heart — it  is  a  paradise 
Which  everlasting  spring  has  made  its  own. 
The  while  drear  Winter  Alls  the  naked  skie?. 
Sweet  streams  of  sunny  thought,  and  flowers  fresh 

blown 
Are  there,  and  weave  their  sounds  and  odours  into 

one. 

XXVII. 

"In  their  own  hearts  the  earnest  of  the  hojje 
Which  made  them  great,  the  good  will  ever  find ; 
And  though  some  envious  shade  may  interlope 
Between  the  eltect  and  it,  one  comes  behind, 
Who  aye  the  future  to  the  past  will  hind- 
Necessity,  whose  sightless  strength  for  ever 
E^•il  with  evil,  good  with  good,  must  wind 
In  bands  of  union,  which  no  power  may  sever: 
They  nmst  bring  forth  their  kind,  and  be  divided 
never ! 

XXVIII. 

"  The  good  and  mighty  of  departed  ages 
Are  in  their  graves,  the  innocent  and  free, 
Heroes  and  Poets,  and  prevailing  Sages, 
Who  leave  the  vesture  of  their  majesty 
To  adorn  and  clothe  this  naked  world  ; — and  we 
Are  like  to  them — such  jwrish,  but  they  leave 
AIL  hope,  or  love,  or  truth,  or  hberty. 
Whose  forms  their  mighty  spirits  could  conceive 
To  be  a  rule  and  law  to  ages  that  sunive. 

XXIX. 

"  So  be  the  turf  heaped  over  our  remains 
Even  in  our  happy  youth,  and  that  strange  lot 
Whate'er  it  be,  when  in  these  mingling  veins 
The  blood  is  .still,  be  ours  ;  let  sense  and  thought 
Pass  from  our  being,  or  be  numbered  not 
Among  the  things  that  are  ;  let  those  who  come 
Behind,  for  whom  our  steadfast  will  has  bought 
A'  calm  inheritance,  a  glorious  doom. 
Insult  with  careless  tread  our  undivided  tomb. 


106 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


"  Our  many  thou'^lits  and  ilcotls,  our  life  ami  love, 
Our  h;ip[)iness,  and  all  that  we  have  lieen, 
InimorUiliv'  must  live,  and  burn,  and  move, 
When  we  shall  be  no  more ;  the  world  has  seen 
A  type  of  peace ;  and  as  some  most  sorcue 
And  lovely  spot  to  a  poor  maniac's  eye, 
After  loniir  years,  some  sweet  and  moving  scene 
Of  youthful  hope  returning  suddeidy, 

Quells  his  long  maduess — thus  man  shall  remem- 
ber thee. 

xxxi. 
"  And  calumny  meanwhile  shall  feed  on  us. 
As  worms  devour  the  dead,  and  near  the  throne 
And  at  the  altar,  most  accepted  thus 
Shall  sneers  and  curses  be  ; — what  we  have  done 
None  shall  dare  vouch,  though  it  be  truly  known; 
That  record  shall  remain,  when  they  must  pass 
Who  built  their  pride  on  its  oblivion; 
And  fame,  in  human  liopc  whicli  sculptured  was, 

Survive  the  perished  scrolls  of  unenduring  brass. 

XXXII. 

"  The  while  we  two,  beloved  must  depart, 
And  Sense  and  Reason,  those  enchanters  fair, 
Whose  wand  of  power  is  hope,  would  bid  the  heart 
That  gazed  beyond  the  wormy  grave  despair : 
These   eyes,  these  lips,  this  blood,  seems  darkly 
To  fade  in  hideous  ruin  ;  no  calm  sleep       [there 
Peopling  with  golden  dreams  the  stagnant  air. 
Seems  our  obscure  and  rottuig  eyes  to  steep 
In  joy  ; — but  senseless  death — a  ruin  dark  and  deep ! 

XXXIII. 

These  are  blind  fancies.     Reason  cannot  know 
What  sense  can  neither  feel,  nor  thought  conceive ; 
There  is  delusion  in  the  world — and  wo. 
And  fear  and  pain — we  know  not  whence  we  live. 
Or  wliy,  or  how,  or  what  mute  Power  may  give 
Their  being  to  each  plant,  and  star,  and  beast, 
Or  even  these  thoughts. — Come  near  me  !     I  do 
A  chain  I  cannot  break — I  am  possest       [weave 
With  thoughts  too  swift  and  strong  for  one   lone 
human  breast. 

XXXIV. 

"  Ves,  yes — thy  kiss  is  sweet,  thy  lips  are  warm — 
O  !  willingly,  beloved,  would  these  eyes. 
Might  they  no  more  drink  being  from  thy  form. 
Even  as  to  sleep  whence  we  again  arise, 
Close  their  faint  orbs  in  death.     I  fear  nor  prize 
Aught  that  can  now  betide,  unshared  by  thee — 
Yes,  Love,  when  wisdom  fails,  makes  Cy  thna  wise ; 
•  Darkness  and  death,  if  death  be  true,  must  be 
Dearer  than  life  and  hope,  if  unenjoycd  with  thee. 

XXXV. 

"  Alas !  our  thoughts  flow  on  with  stream,  whose 

waters 
R'Hurn  not  to  their  fountain — Earth  and  Heaven, 
The  (Jcean  and  the  Sun,  the  clouds  theirdaughters. 
Winter,  and  Spring,  and  Morn,  and  Noon,  and 
All  that  we  arc  or  know,  is  darkly  driven  [Even, 
Towards  one  gulf. — Lo !  what  a  change  is  come 
SinccI  first  si)ake — but  time  shall  be  forgiven. 
Though   it  change  all  but  thee !"  She  ceased — 

night's  ploom  [dome. 

Meanwhile  had  fallen  on  earth  from  the  sky's  sunless 


XXXVI. 

Though  she  had  ceased,  her  countenance,  unlifted 
To  heaven,  still  spake,  with  solemn  glory  bright ; 
Her  dark  deep  eyes,  her  lips,  whose  motions  stilted 
The  air  they  lireatlied  with  love,  herlpcks  uiidigbt; 
"  Fair  star  of  hfe  and  love,"  I  cried,  "  my  soul's  de- 
Why  lookest  thou  on  the  crystalline  skies  ?  [light, 

0  tliat  my  spirit  were  yon  Heaven  of  night. 
Winch  gazes  on  thee  with  its  thousand  eyes  ! 

•She  turned  to  me  and  smiled — that  smile  was  Para- 
dise ! 

CANTO  X. 
I. 

Was  there  a  human  spirit  in  the  steed. 
That  thus  V.  ith  his  proud  voice,  ere  night  was  gone, 
He  l)roke  our  linked  rcsti  or  do  indeed 
All  living  things  a  common  nature  own, 
And  thought  erect  a  universal  throne. 
Where  many  shapes  one  tribute  ever  bear? 
And  Earth,  their  nmtual  mother,  docs  she  groan 
To  see  her  sons  contend  ?   and  makes  she  bare 
Her  breast,  that  all  in  peace  its  drainlcss  stores  may 
share  ] 

II. 

1  have  heard  friendly  sounds  from  many  a  tongue 
Which  was  not  human — tlie  lone  Nightingale 
Has  answered  me  with  her  most  sootliing  song. 
Out  of  her  ivy  bower,  when  I  sate  pale 

With  grief,  and  sighed  beneath  ;  from  many  a  dale 
The  xVntelojjes  who  flocked  for  food  have  spoken 
\^'ith  happy  sounds,  and  motions,  that  avail 
Like  man's  own  speech ;  and  such  was  now  the 
token  [was  broken. 

Of  waning  night,  whose  calm  by  that  proud  neigh 

III. 

Each  night,  that  mighty  steed  bore  me  abroad, 
And  I  r(?turned  with  food  to  our  retreat, 
And  dark  intelligence ;  tlie  blood  which  flowed 
Over  the  fields,  had  stained  the  courser's  feet ; — 
Soon  the  dust  drinks  that  bitter  dew, — then  meet 
The  vulture,  and  the  wild-dog,  and  the  snake, 
The  wolf,  and  the  hy.Tna  gray,  and  eat 
'J'he  dead  in  horrid  truce :  their  throngs  did  make 
Behind  the  steed,  a  chasm  like  waves  in  a  shi])'s  wake. 

IV. 

For  from  the  utmost  realms  of  earth,  came  j)ouring 
The  banded  slaves  from  every  despot  sent 
At  that  throned  traitor's  summons;  like  the  roaring 
Of  fire,  whose  floods  the  wild  deer  circumvent 
In  the  scorched  pastures  of  the  South;  so  bent 
The  armies  of  the  leagued  kings  around 
Their  files  of  steel  and  flame; — the  continent 
Trembled,  as  wilii  a  zone  of  ruin  bound ;  [sound. 
Beneath  their  feet,  the  sea  shook  with  their  navies' 

T. 

From  every  nation  of  the  earth  they  came, 
The  nmltitude  of  moving  heartless  things, 
Whom  slaves  call  men :  obediently  they  came. 
Like  sheei)  whom  from  tlie  fold  the  shejiherd  brings 
To  the  stall, red  with  blood;  their  many  kings 
Led  them,  thus  erring,  from  their  native  jiome; 
Tartar  and  Frank,  and  millions  whom  the  wings 
Of  Indian  breezes  lull,  and  many  a  band 
The  Arctic  Anarch  sent,  and  Idumca's  sand, 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


107 


Ferlilo  in  protloo^ies  and  lies ; — so  there 
Strange  natures  made  a  brotherhood  of  ill. 
The  desert  savage  ceased  to  grasp  in  fear 
His  Asian  shield  and  bow,  when,  at  the  will 
Ot"  Europe's  subtler  son,  the  bolt  would  kill 
Some  shepherd  sitting  on  a  rook  secure ; 
But  smiles  of  wondering  joy  his  foce  would  fdl, 
And  savage  sympathy  :  those  slaves  impure, 
Each  one  the  other  thus  from  ill  to  ill  did  lure. 

TII. 

For  traitorously  did  that  foul  Tyrant  robe 
His  countenance  in  lies ; — •even  at  the  hour 
When  he  was  snatched  from  death,  then  o'er  the 

globe, 
With  secret  signs  from  many  a  mountain  tower, 
With  smoke  by  day,  and  lire  by  night,  the  power 
Of  kings  and  priests,  those  dark  conspirators 
He  called : — they  knew  his  cause  their  own,  and 

swore 
Like  wolves  and  serpents  to  their  mutual  wars 
Strange  truce,  with  many  a  rite  which  Earth  and 

Heaven  abhors. 

viit. 
Myriads  had  come — millions  were  on  their  way; 
The  Tyrant  passed,  surrounded  by  the  steel 
Of  hired  assassins,  through  the  public  way,     [reel 
Choked  with  his  country's  dead; — his  footsteps 
On  the  fresh  blood — he  smiles.    "  A}',  now  I  feel 
I  am  a  Kuig  in  truth !"  he  said,  and  took 
His  ro3'al  scat,  and  bade  the  torturing  wheel 
Be  brought,  and  fire,  and  pincers,  and  the  hook. 
And  scoi-pions !  that  his  soul  on  its  revenge  might 

look. 

IX. 

"  But  first  go  slay  the  rebels. — Why  return 
The  victor  bands  1"  he  said:  "milhons  yet  live, 
Of  whom  the  weakest  with  one  word  might  turn 
The  scales  of  victory  yet ; — ^let  none  survive 
But  those  within  the  walls — each  fifth  shall  give 
The  expiation  for  his  brethren  here. — ■ 
Go  forth,  and  waste  and  kill ;" — •'  O  king,  forgive 
My  speech,"  a  soldier  answered  ; — "  but  we  fear 
The  spirits  of  the  niglit,  and  morn  is  drawmg  near ; 

X. 

'•  For  we  were  slaying  still  without  remorse. 
And  now  that  dreadful  chief  beneath  my  hand 
Defenceless  lay,  when  on  a  hell-black  horse, 
An  angel  bright  as  day,  waving  a  brand 
W  hich  flashed  among  the  stars,  passed." — <'  Dost 

thou  stand 

Parleying  with  mc,thou  wTetchI"  the  king  replied; 

"  Slaves,  bind  him  to  the  wheel ;  and  of  this  band. 

Whoso  will  drag  that  woman  to  his  side  [beside ; 

That  scared  him  thus,  may  burn  his  dearest  foe 

XT. 

"  And  gold  and  glory  shall  be  his. — Go  forth  !" 

They  rushed  into  the  plain Loud  was  the  roar 

Of  their  career :  the  horsemen  shook  the  earth  ; 
The  wheeled  artillery's  speed  the  pavement  tore ; 
The  infantry,  file  aft;cr  file,  did  ponr  [slew 

Their  clouds  on  the  utmost  hills.     Five  days  they 
Among  the  wasted  fields:  the  sixth  saw  gore 
Stream  through  the  city  ;  on  the  seventh  the  dew 
Of  slaughter  became  still";  and  there  was  peace  anew. 


Peace  in  the  desert  fields  and  villages, 
Between  the  glutted  beasts  and  mangled  dead  ! 
Peace  in  the  silent  streets  !  save  when  the  erics 
Of  victims,  to  their  fiery  j^idgment  led. 
Made  pale  their  voiceless  lips,  who  seemed  to  dread 
Even  in  their  dearest  kindred,  lest  some  tongue 
Be  faithless  to  the  fear  yet  unbetrayed  ; 
Peace  in  the  Tyrant's  palace,  where  the  throng 
Waste  the  triumphal  hours  in  festival  and  song ! 

XIII. 

Day  after  day  the  burninir  Sun  rolled  on 
Over  the  death-polluted  land; — it  came 
Out  of  the  east  like  iire,  and  fiercely  shone 
A  lamp  of  Autumn,  ripening  with  its' flame 
The  few  lone  cars  of  corn  ; — the  sky  became 
Stagnate  with  heat,  so  that  each  cloud  and  blast 
Languished  and  died ;  the  thirsting  air  did  claim 
All  moisture,  and  a  rotting  vapour  past 
From  the  unburied  dead,  invisible  and  fast. 

XIV. 

First  Want,  then  Plague,  came  on  the  beasts;  their 
Failed,  and  they  drew  the  breath  of  its  decay,  [food 
Millions  on  millions,  whom  the  scent  of  blood 
Had  lured,  or  who,  from  regions  far  away, 
Had  tracked  the  hosts  in  festival  array. 
From  their  dark  deserts ;  gaunt  and  wasting  now, 
Stalked  like  fell  shades  among  their  perished  prey  ; 
In  their  green  eyes  a  strange  disease  did  glow, 
They  sank  in  hideous  spasm,  or  pains  severe  and 
slow. 

XV. 

The  fish  were  poisoned  in  the  streams ;  the  birds 
In  the  green  w^oods  perished ;  the  insect  race 
Was  withered  up ;  the  scattered  flocks  and  herds 
Who  had  survived  the  wild  beasts'  hungry  chase 
Died  moaning,  each  upon  the  other's  face 
In  helpless  agonv^  gazing;  round  the  City 
All  night,  the  lean  hysenas  their  sad  case 
Like  starving  infants  wailed — a  woful  ditty  !  [pit}'. 
And  many  a  mother  wept,  pierced  with  unnatural 

XVI. 

Amid  the  aerial  minarets  on  high. 
The  .Ethiopian  vultures  fluttering  fell 
From  their  long  line  of  brethren  in  the  sky, 
Startling  tiie  concourse  of  mankind. — Too  well 
These  signs  the  coming  mischief  did  foretell: — 
Strange  panic  first,  a  deep  and  siekejiing  dread 
Within  each  heart,  like  ice,  did  sink  and  dwell 
A  voiceless  thought  of  c\i\,  which  did  sj)rcad 
With  the   quick  glance  of  eyes,  like  withering 
Ughtnings  shed. 

XVII. 

Day  after  day,  when  the  year  wanes,  the  frosts 
Strip  its  green  crown  of  leaves,  till  all  is  bare ; 
So  on  those  strange  aiid  congregated  hosts 
Came  Famine,  a  swift  shadow,  and  the  air 
Groaned  with  the  burden  of  a  new  despair ; 
Famine,  than  whom  Misrule  no  deadlier  daughter 
Feeds  from  her  thousand  breasts,  thoutrh  sleeping 
there  [Slaughter, 

With  lidless  eyes,   lie   Faith,  and.  Plague,  and 
A  ghastly  brood ;  conceived  of  Lethe's  sullen  water. 


108 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


Tlierc  was  no  food  ;  the  corn  was  trampled  down, 
The  flocks  and  hords  had  pcrisJicd  ;  on  the  shore 
The  dead  and  putrid  llosh  were  ever  thrown : 
The  deeps  wore  foodless,  and  the  winds  no  more 
Creaked  with  the  weight  of  birds,  but,  as  before 
Those  winged  things  sprang  forth,  wcie  void  of 

shade ; 
The  vines  and  orchards,  Autumn's  golden  store, 
Were    burned ;    so  that    tJie  meanest  food  was 

weighed 
With  gold,  and  Avarice  died  before  the  god  it  made. 

IIX. 

There  was  no  com — in  the  wide  market-place 
All  loathUest  things,  even  human  flesh,  was  sold ; 
They  weighed  it  in  small  scales — and  many  a  face 
Was  fixed  in  eager  horror  then :  his  gold 
The  miser  brought;  the  tender  maid,  grown  bold 
Through  hunger,  bared  her  scorned  charms  in  vain ; 
The  mother  brought  her  eldest-born,  controlled 
By  instinct  blind  as  love,  but  turned  again 
And  bade  her  ijifant  suck,  and  died  in  silent  pain. 

XX. 

TTien  fell  blue  Plague  upon  the  race  of  man. 
"  O,  for  tlie  sheathed  steel,  so  late  which  gave 
Oblivion  to  the  dead,  when  the  streets  ran     [grave 
Willi  brothers'  blood !    O,  that  the  earthquake's 
Would  gaj)e,  or  Ocean  lift  its  stifling  wave  !" 
Vain   cries — throughout    the    streets,  thousands 
Each  by  his  fiery  torture,  howl  and  rave,  [pursued 
Or  sit.  in  frenzy's  unimagined  mood. 
Upon  fresh  heaps  of  dead — a  ghastly  multitude. 

xxr. 

It  was  not  hunger  now,  but  thirst.     Each  well 
Was  choked  with  rotting  corpses,  and  became 
A  cauldron  of  green  mist  made  visible 
At  sunrise.     Thither  still  the  myriads  came, 
Seeking  to  quench  the  agony  of  the  flame  [veins ; 
Which  raged  like  poison  through  their  burstmg 
Naked  they  were  from  torture,  without  shame, 
Spotted  with  nameless  scars  and  lurid  blains. 
Childhood,  and  youth,  and  age,  writhing  in  savage 
pains. 

XXII. 

It  was  not  thirst,  but  madness !     Many  saw 
Their  own  lean  image  everj'  where ;  it  went 
A  ghastlier  self  beside  them,  till  the  awe 
Of  that  dread  sight  to  self-destruction  sent 
*  Those  shrieking  victims ;  some,  ere  life  was  spent, 
Sought,  with  a  horrid  sympathy,  to  shed 
Contagion  on  the  sound ;  and  others  rent 
Their  matted  hair,  and  crfed  aloud,  "We  tread 
On  fire  !  the  avenging  Power  his  hell  on  earth  has 
spread." 

XXIII. 

Sometimes  the  living  by  the  dead  were  hid 
Near  the  great  founUiin  in  the  public  square, 
Where  corpses  made  a  crumbling  pyramid 
Under  the.  sun,  was  heard  one  stifled  jirayer 
For  life,  in  the  hot  i^ilence  of  the  air; 
And  Htranse  'twas,  amid  that  hideous  heap  to  see 
Some  shrouded  in  their  long  and  golden  hair. 
As  if  not  dead,  but  shimbermg  quietly^      [agony. 
Like  forms  which  sculptors  carve,   then   love   to 


Famine  had  spared  the  palace  of  the  king: — 
He  rioted  in  festival  the  while,  [A'ng 

He  and  his  guards  and  y)riests ;  but  Plague  did 
One  shadow  upon  all.     F'aniine  can  smile 
On  him  who  brings  it  food,  and  pass,  with  giaile 
Of  thankful  falsehood,  like  a  courtier  gray, 
The  house-dog  of  the  throne ;  but  many  a  mile 
Conies  Plague,  a  winged  wolf,  who  loathes  alway 
The  garbage  and  the  scum  that  strangers  make  her 
prey. 

XXV. 

So,  near  the  throne,  amid  the  gorgeous  feast, 
Sheathed  in  resplendent  arms,  or  loosely  dight 
To  luxury,  ere  the  mockery  j'et  had  ceased 
That  lingered  on  his  lips,  the  warrior's  might 
Was  loosened,  and  a  new  and  gljastlier  night 
In  dreams  of  frenzy  lapped  his  eyes ;  he  fell 
Headlong,  or  with  stiff  eyeballs  sa'.e  upright 
Among  the  guests,  or  raving  mad,  did  tell     [hell. 
Strange  truths ;   a  dying  seer  of  dark  oppression's 

XXTT. 

The  Princes  and  the  Priests  were  pale  with  terror ; 
That  monstrous  faith  wherewith  they  ruled  man- 
Fell,  like  a  shaft  loosed  by  the  bowman's  error,  [kind 
On  their  own  hearts :  they  souglit  and  they  could 
No  refuge — 'twas  the  blind  who  led  the  blind !  [find 
So,  through  the  desolate  streets  to  the  high  fane. 
The  many-tongued  and  endless  armies  wind 
In  sad  procession :  each  among  the  train 
To  his  own  Idol  lifts  his  supplications  vain. 

XXVII. 

"  O  God !"  they  cried,  "  we  know  our  secret  pride 
Has  scorned  thee,  and  thy  worship,  and  thy  name  ; 
Secure  in  human  power,  we  have  defied 
Thy  fearful  might ;  we  bend  in  fear  and  shame 
Before  thy  presence;  with  the  dust  we  claim 
Kindred.     Be  merciful,  O  King  of  Heaven  ! 
Most  justly  have  we  suflered  for  thy  fame 
Made  dim,  but  be  at  length  our  shis  forgiven, 
Ere  to  despair  and  death  thy  worshippers  be  driven. 

xxviii. 
"  O  King  of  Glory !    Thou  alone  hast  power ! 
Who  can  resist  thj-  will  ?  who  can  restrain 
Thy  wrath,  when  on  the  guilty  thou  dost  shower 
The  shafts  of  thy  revenge, — a  blist<"ring  rain  1 
Greatest  and  best,  be  merciful  ag-.un  ! 
Have  we  not  stabbed  thine  enemies,  and  made 
The  Earth  an  altar,  and  the  Heavens  a  time,  [laid 
Where  thou  wert  worshipped  with  their  blood,  and 
Those   hearts  in  dust  which  would   thy  searchlcss 
works  have  weigheil  1 


"  Weil  didst  thou  loosen  on  this  impious  City 
Thine  angels  of  revenge  :  recall  them  now ; 
Thy  worshii)i)ers  abased,  here  kneel  for  ]>hy, 
And  bind  their  souls  by  an  innnortal  vow  : 
We  swear  by  thee !    And  to  our  oath  do  thou 
Give  sanrlion,  from  thine  hell  of  fiends  and  flame. 
That  we  will  kill  with  fire  and  tonnents  slow, 
The  last  of  those  who  mocked  thy  holy  name. 
And  scorned  the  sacred  laws  thy  prophets  did  pro- 
claim." 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


109 


Thus  they  with  trembling  limbs  ami  pallid  lips 
Worshipped  their  own  hearts'  image,  dim  and  vast, 
Scared  by  the  shade  wherewith  they  would  eclipse 
Tile  light  of  other  minds; — troubled  they  past 
From  the  great  Temple.     Fiercely  still  and  last 
The  arrows  of  the  plague  among  them  fell, 
And  they  on  one  another  gazed  agliast. 
And  through  the  hosts  contention  wild  befell,  [tell. 
As  each  of  his  own  god   the  wondrous  works  did 

XXXI. 

And  Oromaze,  Joshua,  and  Mahomet,  [Foh, 

Moses,  and  Budilh,  Zerdusht,  and   Brahm,  and 
A  tumult  of  strange  names,  w-hich  never  met 
Before,  as  watchwords  of  a  single  wo, 
Arose.     Each  ragiiig  votary  'gan  to  throw 
Aloft  his  armed  hands,  and  each  did  howl 
"Our  God  alone  is  God !"  and  slaughter  now 
Would  have  gone  forth,  when,  from  beneath  a  cowl, 
A  voice  came  forth,  which  pierced  like  ice  through 
every  soul. 

XXXII. 

'Twas  an  Iberian  Priest  from  whom  it  came, 
A  zealous  man,  who  led  the  legioned  west 
With  words  which  faith  and  pride  had  steeped  in 
To  quell  the  unbelievers;  a  dire  guest       [tlamc. 
Even  to  his  friends  was  he,  for  in  his  breast 
Did  hate  and  guile  lie  watchful,  intertwined, 
Twin  serpents  in  one  deep  and  winding  nest; 
He  loathed  all  faith  beside  his  own,  and  pined 
To  wreak  his  feaf  of  Heaven  in  vengeance  on  man- 
kind. 

XXXIII. 

But  more  he  loathed  and  hated  the  clear  light 
Of  wisdom  and  free  thought,  and  more  did  fear, 
Lest,  kindled  once,  its  beams  might  pierce  the  night, 
Even  where  his  Idol  stood ;  for,  for  and  near 
Did  many  a  heart  in  Europe  leap  to  hear 
That  foith  and  tyranny  were  trampled  down ; 
Manj'  a  pale  victim  doomed  for  truth  to  share 
The  murderer's  cell,  or  see,  with  helpless  groan. 
The  priests  his  children  drag  for  slaves  to  serve 
their  own. 

XXXIV. 

He  dared  not  kill  the  infidels  with  fire 
Or  steel,  in  Europe ;  the  slow  agonies 
Of  legal  torture  mocked  his  keen  desire : 
So  he  made  truce  with. those  who  did  despise 
The  expiation,  and  the  sacrifice, 
That,  though  detested,  Islam's  kindred  creed 
Might  crush  for  him  those  deadlier  enemies ; 
For  fear  of  God  did  in  his  bosom  breed 
A  jealous  hate  of  man,  an  unreposing  need. 

XXXV. 

"  Peace  !  Peace  !"  he  cried.  "  When  wc  are  dead, 

the  Day 
Of  Judgment  comes,  and  all  shall  surely  know 
Whose  God  is  God,  each  fearfully  shall  pay 
The  errors  of  his  faith  in  endless  wo  ! 
But  there  is  sent  a  mortal  vengeance  row 
On  earth,  because  an  impious  race  had  spumed 
Him  whom  we  all  adore, — a  subtle  foe, 
By  whom  for  ye  this  dread  reward  was  earned. 
And    kingly   thrones,  which  rest   on   faith,  nigh 
overturned. 


XXXVI. 

"  Think  ye,  because  we  weep,  and  kneel,  and  pray, 
That  God  will  lull  the  pestilence  1   It  rose 
Even  from  beneath  his  throne,  where,  many  a  day 
His  mercy  soojhed  it  to  a  dark  repose : 
It  walks  up6n  the  earth  to  judge  his  foes. 
And  what,  art  thon  and  I,  that  he  should  deign 
To  curb  his  ghastly  minister,  or  close 
The  gates  of  death_,  ere  they  receive  the  twain 
Who  shook  with  mortal  spells  his  undefended  reign  T 

XXXVII. 

"  Ay,  there  is  famine  in  the  gulf  of  hell, 
Its  giant  worms  of  fire  for  ever  yawn, — 
Their  lurid  eyes  are  on  us !  Those  who  fell 
By  the  swift  shafts  of  pestilence  ere  dawn, 
Are  in  their  jaws  !  They  hunger  for  the  spawn 
Of  Satan,  their  own  brethren,  who  were  sent 
To  make  our  souls  their  spoil.   See!  see!  they  fawn 
Like  dogs,  and  they  will  sleep  with  luxurj-  spent. 
When  those  detested  hearts  their  iron  fangs  have 
rent ! 

XXXTIII. 

"  Our  God  may  then  lull  Pestilence  to  sleep : — 
Pile  high  the  pyre  of  expiation  now ! 
A  forest's  spoil  of  boughs,  and  on  the  heap 
Pour  venomous  gums,  which  sullenly  and  slow, 
When  touched  by  flame,  shall  burn,  and  melt, 

and  flow, 
A  stream  of  clinging  fire. — and  fix  on  high 
A  net  of  iron,  and  spread  forth  below 
A  couch  of  snakes,  and  scorpions,  and  the  fry 
Of  centipedes  and  worms,  earth's  hellish  progeny ! 

XXXIX. 

"  Let  Laon  and  Laone  on  that  pyre,  [pr^y 

Linked  tight  with  burnuig  brass,  perish  ! — then 
That,  with  this  sacrifice,  the  withering  ire 
Of  Heaven  may  be  appeased."  He  ceased,  and  they 
A  space  stood  silent,  as  far,  far  away 
The  echoes  of  his  voice  among  them  died; 
And  he  knelt  down  upon  the  dust,  alway 
Muttering  the  curses  of  his  speechless  pride, 
Whilst  shame,  and  fear,  and  awe,  the  annies  did 
divide. 

XL. 

His  voice  was  like  a  blast  that  burst  the  portal 
Of  fabled  hell ;  and  as  he  spake,  each  one 
Saw  gape  beneath  the  chasms  of  fire  immortal, 
And  Heaven  above  seemed  cloven,  where,  on  a 

throne 
Girt  round  with  storms  and  shadows,  sate  alone 
Their  King  and  Judge.  Fear  killed  in  every  breast 
All  natural  pity  then,  a  fear  unknow'n 
Before,  and  with  an  inward  fire  posscst. 
They  raged  like  homeless  beasts  whom  burning 

woods  invest. 

XLI. 

'Twas  mom — At  noon  the  public  crier  went  forth, 
Proclaiming  through  the  living  and  the  dead, 
"  The  Monarch  saith,  that  his  great  empire's  worth 
Is  set  on  Laon  and  Laone's  head : 
He  who  but  one  yet  living  here  can  lead, 
Or  who  the  life  from  both  their  hearts  can  wring. 
Shall  be  the  kingdom's  heir, — a  glorious  meed ! 
But  he  who  both  alive  can  hither  bring,   [King." 
The  Princess  shall  espouse,  and  reign  an  equal 
K 


110 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


Erp  niiiht  the  pyre  xvas  jjilcJ,  the  net  of  iron 
Was  .sjiroad  iiliovc,  tlie  (t'arful  couch  below ; 
It  ovcrtojJiH'il  the  towers  tliat  did  environ 
That  spacious  squiire ;  for  t'ear  is  never  slow 
To  build  llie  tlirones  of  Hate,  her  mate  and  foe, 
So,  she  scourged  forth  the  maniac  multitude 
To  rear  tiiis  ])yramid — tottering  and  slow. 
Plague-stricken,   foodlcss,  like   lean  herds  pur- 
sued 
By  gadflies,  they  have  piled  the  heath,  and  gums, 
and  wood. 

XLIII. 

Nitrht  came,  a  starless  and  a  moonless  gloom. 
Until  the  dawn,  those  hosts  of  many  a  nation 
Stood  round  tiiat  pile,  as  near  one  lover's  tomb 
Two  gentle  sisters  mourn  their  desolation ; 
And  in  the  silence  of  that  expectation. 
Was  heard  on  high  the  reptile's  luss  and  crawl — 
It  was  so  deep,  save  when  the  devastation 
Of  the  swift  pest  with  fearful  interval. 
Marking  its  path  with  shrieks,  among  the  crowd 
would  fall. 

XLIV. 

Morn  came. — Among  those  sleepless  multitudes, 
Madness,  and  Fear,  and   Plague,  and  Famine, 

still 
Heaped  corpse  on  corpse,  as  in  autumnal  woods 
The  frosts  of  many  a  wund  with  dead  leaves  fill 
Earth's  cold  and  sullen  brooks.     In  silence  still 
The  pale  survivors  stood ;  ere  noon,  the  fear 
Of  hell  became  a  panic,  whicli  did  kill 
Like  hunger  or  disease,  with  whispers  drear, 
As  "  Hush  !  hark !  Come  they  yet  1  Just  Heaven  ! 
thine  hour  is  near !" 

XLT. 

And  Priests  rushed  through  their  ranks,  some 

counterfeiting 
The  rage  thej'  did  inspire,  some  mad  indeed 
With  their  own  lies.    They  said  their  god  was 

wailing 
To    sec    his    enemies    writhe,    and    burn,   and 

bleed, — 
And  that,  till  then,  the  snakes  of  Hell  had  need 
Of  human  souls. — Three  hundred  furnaces 
Soon  blazed  through  the  wide  City,  where,  with 

speed. 
Men  brought  their  infidel  kindred  to  appease 
God's  wrath,  and  while  they  burned,  knelt  round 

on  quivering  knees. 

XLVI. 

The  noontide  sun  was  darkened  with  that  smoke. 
The  winds  of  eve  dispersed  those  ashes  gray. 
The  madness  wliich  these  rites  had  hilled,  awoke 
Again  .at  sunset. — Who  shall  dare  to  say 
The  deeds  which  night  and  fear  brought  forth,  or 

weigh 
In  balance  just  the  good  and  e^'iI  there? 
He  might  man's  deep  and  searchless  heart  dis- 

I)lay, 
And  cast  a  light  on  those  dim  labyrinths,  where 
Hope,  near  imagined  chasms,  is  struggling  with 

despair. 


'Tis  said,  a  mother  dragged  three  children  then. 
To  those  fierce  flames  which  roast  the  eyes  in  the 
And  laughed  and  died  ;  aiid  that  unholy  men,  [head. 
Feasting  like  fiends  upon  the  infidel  dead, 
Looked  from  their  im  al,  and  saw  an  Angcl  tread 
The  visible  floor  of  Heaven,  an<l  if  was  she  ! 
And,  on  that  night,  one  without  doubt  or  dread 
Came  to  the  fire,  and  said,  "  Stop,  I  ain  he ! 

Kill  me !" — They  burned  them  both  with  hellish 
mockery. 

XLvm. 
And,  one  by  one,  that  night,  young  maidens  came, 
Beauteous  and  calm,  like  shapes  of  living  stone 
Clothed  in  the  light  of  dreams,  and  by  the  flame 
Which  shrank  as  overgorged,  they  laid  them  down. 
And  sung  a  low  sweet  song,  of  which  alone 
One  word  was  heard,  and  that  was  Liberty  ; 
And  that  some  kissed  their  marble  feet,  with  moan 
Like  love,  and  died,  and  then  that  they  did  die 

With  happ}- smiles,  which  sunk  hi  white  tranquillity. 

CANTO  XL 

I. 
She  saw  me  not — she  lieard  me  not — alone 
Upon  the  mountain's  dizzy  brink  she  stood  ; 
She  spake  not,  breathed  not,  moved  not — there  was 
Over  her  look,  the  shadow  of  a  mood  [thrown 

Which  only  clothes  the  heart  in  solitude, 
A  thought  of  voiceless  death. — She  stood  alone. 
Above,  the  Heavens  were  spread ; — below,  the  flood 
Was  murmuring  in  Us  caves  ; — the  wintl  had  blown 

Her  hair  apart,  through  which  her  eyes  and  forehead 
shone. 

II. 
A  cloud  was  hanging  o'er  the  western  mountains; 
Before  its  blue  and  moveless  depth  were  flying  [tains 
Gray  mists  poured  forth  from  the  unresting  foun- 
Of  darkness  in  the  North  : — the  day  was  dying: — 
Su<lden,  the  sun  shone  forth  ;  its  beams  were  lying 
Like  boiling  gold  on  Ocean,  strange  to  see. 
And  on  the  shattered  vapours,  which,  defying 
The  power  of  light  in  vain,  tossed  restlessly 

In  the  red  Heaven,  like  wrecks  ui  a  tempestuous  sea, 
III. 
It  was  a  stream  of  living  beams,  whose  bank 
On  either  side  by  the  cloud's  cleft  was  made ; 
And  where  its  chasms  that  flood  of  glory  drank. 
Its  waves  gushed  forth  like  fire,  and,  as  if  swayed 
By  some  mute  tempest,  rolled  on  her.  The  shade 
Of  her  bright  image  floated  on  the  river 
Of  liijuid  light,  which  then  did  end  and  fade — 
Her  radiant  shape  ujion  its  verge  did  shiver; 

Aloft,  her  flowing  hair  like  strings  of  flame  did  quiver. 

IV. 

I  stood  beside  her,  but  she  saw  mc  not^ — 
She  looked  upon  the  sea,  and  skies,  and  earth. 
Rapture,  and  love,  and  admiration,  wrought 
A  passion  deeper  far  than  tears,  or  mirth, 
Or  speech,  or  gesture,  or  whatc'er  has  birth 
From  common  joy ;  which,  with  the  speechless 
That  led  her  there,  united,  and  shot  forth    [fceUng 
From  her  fair  eyes,  a  light  of  deep  revealing. 
All  but  her  dearest  self  from  my  regard  concealmg. 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


Ill 


Ilrr  lips  were  parted,  and  the  moasurod  breath 
Was  now  hoard  there ; — Iter  dark  and  intrieatc  eyes 
Orb  within  orb,  deeper  than  sleep  or  death, 
Absorbed  the  glories  of  the  burning:  skies, 
Wiiich,  mingling  with  her  heart's  deep  ecstaeics, 
Burst  from  her  looks  and  gestures; — and  a  light 
Of  liquid  tenderness,  like  love,  did  rise         [quite 
From  her  whole  fi'ame, — an  atmosphere  wliieh 

Arrayed  her  in  its  beams,  tremulous  and  soft  and 
bright. 

vt. 
She  would  have  elasped  me  to  her  glowing  frame; 
Those  warm  and  odorous  lips  might  soon  have  shed 
On  mine  the  fragranee  and  the  invisible  flame 
Which  now  the  cold  winds  stole ; — she  would 

have  laid 
Upon  my  languid  heart  her  dearest  head ; 
I  might  have  heard  her  voice,  tender  and  sweet ; 
Her  eyes  mingling  with  mine,  might  soon  have  fed 
My  soul  with  their  own  joy. — One  moment  yet 

I  g<ized — 'we  parted  then,  never  again  to  meet ! 

VII. 

Never  but  once  to  meet  on  earth  again ! 
She  heard  me  as  I  fled — her  eager  tone 
Sank  on  my  heart,  and  almost  wove  a  chain 
Around  my  will  to  link  it  with  her  own, 
So  that  my  stern  resolve  was  almost  gone. 
"  I  cannot  reach  thee  !  whither  dost  thou  fly  ? 
My  steps  are  faint. — Come  back,  thou  dearest  one — ■ 
Return,  ah  me  !  return  !"     The  wind  passed  by 
On  which  those  accents  died,  faint,  far,  and  lingcr- 

VIII. 

Wo !  wo !  that  moonless  midnight. — Want  and 
Were  horrible,  but  one  more  fell  doth  rear,  [Pest 
As  in  a  hydra's  swarming  lair,  its  crest 
Eminent  among  those  victims — even  the  Fear 
Of  Hell :  each  girt  by  the  hot  atmosphere 
Of  his  blind  agony,  like  a  scorpion  stung 
By  his  own  rage  upon  his  burning  bier 
Of  circling  coals  of  fire ;  but  still  there  clung 
One  hope,  like  a  keen  sword  on  starting  threads 
uphung : 

IX. 

Not  death — death  was  no  more  refuge  or  rest ; 
Not  life — it  was  despair  to  be  ! — ^not  sleep. 
For  fiends  and  chasms  of  fire  had  dispossessed 
All  natural  dreams ;  to  wake  was  not  to  weep, 
But  to  gaze  mad  and  pallid,  at  the  leap 
To  which  the  future,  like  a  snaky  scourge. 
Or  like  some  tyrant's  eye,  which  aye  doth  keep 
Its  withering  beam  upon  his  slaves,  did  urge 
Their  steps : — they  heard  the  roar  of  Hell's  sul- 
phureous surge, 

X. 

Each  of  that  multitude  alone,  and  lost 
To  sense  of  outward  things,  one  hope  yet  knew ; 
As  on  a  foam-girt  crag  some  seaman  tost, 
Stares  at  the  rising  tide,  or  like  the  crew  [through. 
Whilst  now  the  ship  is  splitting  through  and 
Each,  if  the  tramp  of  a  far  steed  was  heard, 
Started  from  sick  despair,  or  if  there  flew 
One  murmur  on  the  wind,  or  if  some  word  [stirred. 
Which  none  can  gather  yet,  the  distant  crowd  has 


W'hy  became  cheeks,  wan  with  the  kiss  of  death 
Paler  from  hope  1  they  had  sustained  despair. 
Why  watched  those  myriads  with  suspended  breath 
Sleepless  a  second  night  1   they  are  not  here 
The  victims,  and  hour  b)'  hour,  a  vision  drear, 
Warm  cor]>sos  fall  u[)on  the  clay-cold  dead  ; 
And  even  in  death  their  lips  are  writhed  with  fear. 
The  crowd  is  mute  and  mo\cless — overhead 
Silent  Arcturus  .shines — Ha !  hear'st  thou  not  the 
tread 

XII. 

Of  rushing  feet  T  laughter  !  the  shout,  the  scream, 
Of  triumph  not  to  be  contained  !   See  !  hark  ! 
They  come,  they  come  !  give  way  !  Alas,  ye  deem 
Falsely — 'tis  but  a  crowd  of  maniacs  stark 
Driven,  like  a  troop  of  spectres,  through  the  dark 
From   the  choked  well,  whence   a  bright  death- 
fire  sprung, 
A  lurid  earth-star,  which  dropped  many  a  spark 
From  its  blue  train,  and  spreading  widely,  clung 

To   their  wild  hair,  like-  mist  the  topmost  pines 
among. 

xiir. 
And  many  fi-om  the  crowd  collected  there," 
Joined  that  strange  dance  in  fearful  sj- mpathies ; 
There  was  the  silence  of  a  long  despair. 
When  the  last  echo  of  those  terrible  cries 
Came  fi-om  a_  distant  street,  like  agonies 
Stifled  afar. — Before  the  Tyrant's  throne 
All  night  his  aged  Senate  sate,  their  eyes 
In  stony  expectation  fixed ;  w^hen  one 

Sudden  before  them  stood,  a  Stranger  and  alone. 

XIV. 

Dark  Priests  and  haughty  Warriors  gazed  on  him 
With  baflied  wonder,  for  a  hermit's  vest 
Concealed  his  face  ;  but  when  he  spake,  his  tone, 
Ere  yet  the  matter  did  their  thoughts  arrest. 
Earnest,  benignant,  calm,  as  from  a  breast 
Void  of  all  hate  or  terror,  made  them  start ; 
For  as  with  gentle  accents  he  addressed 
His  speech  to  them,  on  each  unwilling  heart 
Unusual  awe  did  fall — a  spirit-quelling  dart. 

XV. 

"  Ye  Princes  of  the  Earth,  ye  sit  aghast 
Amid  the  ruin  which  youfsclves  have  made ; 
Yes,  desolation  heard  j'our  trumpet's  blast. 
And  sprang  from  sleep  ! — dark  Terror  has  obeyed 
Your  bidding — Oh  that  I,  whom  ye  have  made 
Your  foe,  could  set  my  dearest  enemy  free 
From  pain  and  fear !   but  evil  casts  a  shade 
Which  cannot  pass  so  soon,  and  Hate  must  be 
The  nurse  and  parent  still  of  an  ill  progeny. 

XVI. 

•■  Yc  turn  to  Heaven  for  aid  in  your  distress ; 
Ahvs,  that  ye,  the  mighty  and  the  wise. 
Who,  if  he  dared,  migh  not  aspire  to  less 
Than  ye  conceive  of  power,  should  fear  the  lies 
Which  thou,  and  thou,  didst  frame  for  mysteries 
To  blind  your  slaves : — consideryour  own  thought, 
An  emptj'  and  a  cruel  sacrifice 
Ye  now  prepare,  for  a  vain  idol  WTought 
Out  of  the  fears  and  hate  which  vain  desires  have 
brouEtht. 


112 


THE    HE  VOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


XVII. 

'•  Yc  seek  for  hapiiincss — alas  thr  day  ! 
Yo  rmii  it  iii>t  ill  luxury  nor  in  pold, 
Nor  ill  the  fame,  nor  in  the  cnviod  sway 
For  whicli,  O  willing  slaves  to  Custom  old, 
Severe  task-mistress !  ye  your  hearts  have  sold. 
Ye  seok  for  peace,  and  when  yc  die,  to  dreain 
No  evil  dreams ;  all  mortal  things  arc  cold 
And  senseless  then.     If  aught  survive,  I  deem 
It  must  be  love  and  joy,  for  they  immortal  seem. 

XVIII. 

"  Fear  not  the  future,  weep  not  for  the  past. 
Oh,  could  I  win  your  cars  to  dare  be  now 
Glorious,  and  great  and  calm!  that  ye  would  cast 
Into  tlie  dust  those  symbols  of  your  wo, 
Purple,  and  gold,  and  steel !  that  he  would  go 
Prochiiming  to  the  nations  whence  ye  came, 
That  Want,  and  Plague,  and  Fear,  from  slavery 

flow  ; 
And  that  mankind  is  free,  and  that  tlie  shame 
Of  royalty  and  faith  is  lost  in  freedom's  fame. 

XIX. 

"  If  thus  'tis  well — if  not,  I  come  to  say 
ThatLaon — ."  While  the  Stranger  spoke, among 
The  Council  sudden  tumult  and  aflray 
Arose  for  many  of  those  warriors  young 
Had  on  his  eloquent  accents  fed  and  hung 
Like  bees  on  mountain-flowers !  they  knew  the 

truth, 
And  from  their  thrones  in  ^^ndication  sprung ; 
The  men  of  faith  and  law  then  without  ruth 
Drew  forth   their  secret  steel,  and  stabbed  each 

ardent  youth. 

XX. 

They  stabbed  tliem  in  the  back  and  sneered.  A  slave 
Who  stood  behind  the  throne,  those  corpses  drew 
Each  to  its  bloody,  dark,  and  secret  grave ; 
And  one  more  daring  raised  his  steel  anew 
To  pierce  the  Stranger :  "  What  hast  thou  to  do 
With  me,  poor  wretch  1" — Calm,  solemn,  and 

severe. 
That  voice  unstning  his  sinews,  and  he  threw 
His  dagger  on  the  ground,  and  pale  with  fear. 
Sate  silently — his  voice  then  did  the  Stranger  rear. 

XXI. 

"It  doth  avail  not  that  I  weep  for  yc — 
Ye  cannot  change,  since  ye  are  old  and  gray, 
And  ye  have  chosen  your  lot — your  fame  must  be 
A  book  of  blood,  whence  in  a  milder  day 
Men  shall  learn  truth,  when  yc  are  wrapt  in  clay  ; 
Now  ye  shall  triumph.     J  am  Laon's  friend, 
And  him  to  your  revenge  will  I  betray. 
So  ye  concede  one  easy  boon.     Attend ! 
For  now  I  speak  ofthings  which  ye  can  apprehend. 

XXII. 

"  There  is  a  People  mighty  in  its  youth, 
A  land  beyond  the  Oceans  of  the  West,    [Truth 
Where,  though  with  rudest  rites.  Freedom  and 
Are  worshipped  ;  from  a  glorious  mother's  breast 
Who,  since  high  Athens  fell  among  the  rest 
Sate  like  the  Queen  of  Nations,  but  in  wo, 
By  inbred  monsters  outraged  and  oppressed. 
Turns  to  her  chainlcss  child  for  succour  now. 
And  draws  the  milk  of  power  in  Wisdom's  fullest 
flow. 


"  This  land  is  like  an  Eagle,  whose  young  gaze 
Feeds  on  the  noontide  beams,  whose  golden  plume 
Floats  nioveless  on  the  storm,  and  in  the  blaze 
Of  sunrise  gli^ms  when  earth  is  wrapt  in  gloom  ; 
An  ejjitiiph  of  glory  for  the  tomb 
Of  murdered  Europe  may  thy  fame  be  made, 
(ireat  People  !  As  the  sands  shalt  thou  become ; 
Thy  growth  is  swift  us  morn,  when  niglit  must  fade; 
The  multitudinous   Earth  shah  sleep  beneath  tliy 
shade. 

XXIV. 

"  Yes,  in  the  desert  then  is  built  a  home 
For  Freedom.     Genius  is  made  strong  to  rear; 
1'he  monuments  of  man  beneath  the  dome 
Of  anew  heaven;  myriads  assemble  there, 
Whom  the  proud  lords  of  man,  in  rage  or  fear 
Drive  from  their  wasted  homes.  The  boon  I  pray 
Is  this, — that  Cytluia  shall  be  convoyed  there, — 
Nay,  start  not  at  the  name — America  ! 
And  then  to  you  this  night  Laon  will  I  betray. 

XXV. 

'<  With  me  do  what  yc  will.     I  am  your  foe !" 
The  light  of  such  a  joy  as  makes  the  stare 
Of  hungry  snakes  like  living  emeralds  glow, 
Shone  in  a  hundred  human  eyes. — "Where,  where 
Is  Laon  ]  haste  !  fly  !  drag  him  swiftly  here  ! 
We  grant  thy  boon." — "  I  put  no  trust  in  ye, 
Swear  by  the  Power  ye  dread." — "  We  swear, 

we  swear !" 
The  Stranger  threw  his  vest  back  suddonly. 
And  smiled  in  gentle  pride,  and  said, "  Lo !  I  am  he." 

CANTO  XII. 
I. 

TnK  transport  of  a  fierce  and  monstrous  gladness 
Spread  through  the  multitudinous  streets,  fast  flying 
Upon  the  winds  of  fear  ;  from  his  dull  madness 
The  starveling  waked,  and  died  in  joy  ;  the  dying, 
Among  the  corpses  in  stark  agony  lying, 
.Tuat  heard  the  happy  tidings,  and  in  hope      [ing 
Closed  their  faint  eyes,  from  house  to  house  reply- 
With  loud  acclaim,  the  living  shook  Heaven's  cope, 

And  liUfd  the  startled  Earth  with  echoes :  mom 
did  ope 

II. 
Its  pale  eyes  then ;  and  lo  !  the  long  array 
Of  guards  in  golden  arms,  and  priests  beside 
Singing  their  bloody  hymns,  whose  garbs  betray 
The  blackness  of  the  faith  it  seems  to  hide; 
And  see,  the  Tyrant's  gem-wrought  chariot  glide 
Among  the  gloomy  cowls  and   glittering  spears — 
A  shape  of  light  is  sitting  by  his  side, 
A  child  most  beautiful.     F  the  midst  appears 

Laon — exempt  alone  from  mortal  hopes  and  fears. 
III. 
His  head  and  feet  are  bare,  his  hands  are  bound 
Behind  with  heavy  chains,  yet  none  do  wreak 
Their  scofi's  on  him.though  myriads  throng  around  ; 
There  are  no  sneers  upon  his  lip  which  .speak 
That  scorn  or  hate  has  made  him  bold  ;  his  check 
Kesolve  has  not  turned  pale, — his  eyes  are  mild 
And  calm,  and  like  the  morn  about  to  break, 
Smile  on  mankind — his  heart  seems  reconciled 

To  all  things  and  itself,  like  a  reposing  child.  • 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


113 


Tumult  was  in  the  soul  of  ;iil  beside, 
111  joy,  or  doubt,  or  tear ;  but  those  who  saw 
Their  tranquil  vietini  pass,  felt  wonder  glide 
Into  their  brain,  and  became  calm  with  awe. — 
See,  the  slow  jias^eant  near  the  pile  doth  draw. 
A  thousand  torchc^s  in  the  sj)aeious  square, 
Borne  by  the  ready  slaves  of  ruthless  law, 
Await  the  siojnal  round  :  the  mornino;  fair 
Is  changed  to  a  dim  night  by  that  unnatural  glare. 

T. 

And  see  !  beneath  a  sun-brit;ht  canopy, 
Upon  a  platform  level  with  the  pile. 
The  anxious  Tyrant  sit,  enthroned  on  high, 
Girt  by  the  chieftains  of  the  host.     All  smile 
In  expectation,  but  one  child  ;  the  while 
I,  Laon,  led  by  mutes,  ascend  my  bier 
Of  fire,  and  look  around.     Each  distant  isle 
Is  dark  in  the  bright  dawn  ;  towers  far  and  near 
Pierce  like  reposing  flames  the  tremulous  atmo- 
sphere. 

TI. 

There  was  such  silence  through  the  host,  as  when 
An  earthquake,  trampling  on  some  populous  town 
Has  crushed  ten  thousand  udth  one  tread,  and  men 
Expect  the  second ;  all  were  mute  but  one. 
That  fairest  child,  who,  bold  with  love,  alone 
Stood  up  before  the  king,  without  avail. 
Pleading  for  Laon's  life — her  stifled  groan 
Was  heard — she  trembled  like  an  aspen  pale 
Among  the  gloomy  pines  of  a  Xorwegian  vale. 

TII. 

What  were  his  thoughts  Hnked   in  the  morning 

•     sun, 
Among  those  reptiles,  stingless  with  delay, 
Even  like  a  tyrant's  wrath  ? — The  signal-gun 
Roarpd — hark,  again  !  In  that  dread  pause  he  lay 
As  in  a  quiet  dream — the  slaves  obey — 
A  thousand  torches  drop, — and  hark,  the  last 
Bursts  on  that  awful  silence.     Far  away 
MilUons,  with  hearts  that  beat  both  loud  and  fast, 

Watch  for    the   springing  flame    expectant    and 
aghast. 

viir. 
They  fly — the  torches  fall — a  cry  of  fear 
Has  startled  the  triumphant  ! — they  recede  ! 
For  ere  the  cannon's  roar  has  died,  they  hear 
The  tramp  of  hoofs  like  earthquake,  and  a  steed 
Dark  and  gigantic,  with  the  tempest's  speed. 
Bursts  through  their  ranks  :  a  woman  sits  thereon, 
Fairer  it  seems  than  aught  that  earth  can  breed, 
Calm,  radiant,  like  the  phantom  of  the  dawn, 

A  spirit  from  the  caves  of  daylight  wandering  gone. 

IX. 

All  thought  it  was  God's  Angel  come  to  sweep 
The  lingering  guilty  to  their  fiery  grave  ; 
The  tyrant  from  his  throne  in  dread  did  leap, — 
Her  innocence  his  child  from  fear  did  save. 
Scared  by  the  faith  they  feigned,each  priestly  slave 
Knelt  for  his  mercy  whom  they  served  with  blood, 
And,  like  the  refluence  of  a  mighty  wave 
Sucking  into  the  loud  sea,  the  multitude 
With  crushing  panic,  fled  in  terror's  altered  mood. 

15 


They  pause,  they  blush,  they  gaze  ;  a  gathering 
sliout  [streams 

Bursts  like  one  sound    from  the  ten    thoTasand 
Of  a  tempestuous  sea  : — 'that  sudden  rout 
One  checked,  who  never  in  his  mildest  dreams 
Felt  awe  from  grace  or  loveliness,  the  seams 
Of  his  rent  heart  so  hard  and  cold  a  creed 
Had  seared  with  blistering  ice — but  he  misdeems 
That  he  is  wise,  whose  wounds  do  only  bleed 

Inly  for  self;  thus  thought  the  Iberian  Priest  indeed, 
xr. 
And  others,  too,  thought  he  was  wise  to  see, 
In  pain,  and  fear,  and  hate,  something  divine ; 
In  love  and  beauty — no  divinity. — 
Now  with  a  bitter  smile,  whose  hght  did  shine 
Like  a  fiend's  hope  upon  his  lips  and  eyne, 
He  said,  and  the  persuasion  of  that  sneer 
Rallied  his  trembling  comrades — "  Is  it  mine 
To  stand  alone,  when  kings  and  soldiers  fear 

A  woman  1  Heaven  has  sent  its  other  ^^ctim  here." 

XII. 

"  Were  it  not  impious,"  said  the  king, "  to  break 
Our  holy  oath  1  ' — "  Impious  to  keep  it  say  !" 
Shrieked  the   exulting  Priest : — "  Slaves  to  the 
Bind  her,  and  on  my  head  the  burden  lay     [stake. 
Of  her  just  torments : — at  the  Judgment  Day 
Will  I  stand  up  before  the  golden  throne 
Of  Heaven,  and  cry,  to  thee  I  did  betray 
An  infidel !  but  for  me  she  would  have  known 
Another  moment's  joy  ! — the  glory  be  thine  own." 

XIII. 

They  trembled,  but  replied  not,  nor  obeyed, 
Pausing  in  breathless  silence.     Cythna  sprung 
From  her  gigantic  steed,  who,  like  a  shade 
Chased  by  the  winds,  those  vacant  streets  among 
Fled  tameless,  as  the  brazen  rein  she  flung 
Upon  his  neck,  and  kissed  his  mooned  brow, 
A  piteous  sight,  that  one  so  fair  and  young. 
The  clasp  of  such  a  fearful  death  should  woo 
With  smiles  of  t<?nder  joy  as  beamed  from  Cythna 

now. 

xiy. 
The  warm  tears  burst  in  spite  of  faith  and  fear, 
From  many  a  tremidous  eye,  but,  like  soft  dews 
Which  feed  spring's  earliest  buds,  hung  gathered 

there. 
Frozen  by  doubt, — alas !  they  could  not  choose 
But  weep;  for  when  her  faint  Umbs  did  refuse 
To  climb  the  pyre,  upon  the  mutes  she  smiled ; 
And  with  her  eloquent  gestures,  and  the  hues 
Of  her  quick  lips,  even  as  a  weary  child     [mild, 
Wms  sleep  from  some  fond  nurse  with  its  caresses 

XT. 

She  won  them,  though  unwilling,  her  to  bind 
iS'ear  me,  among  the  snakes.  When  then  had  fled 
One  soft  reproach  that  was  most  thrilling  kind, 
She  smiled  on  me,  and  nothing  then  we  said, 
But  each  upon  the  other's  countenance  fed 
Ijooks  of  insatiate  love  ;  the  mighty  veil 
Which  doth  divide  the  living  and  the  dead 
Was  almost  rent,  the  world  grew  dim  and  pale, — 
All  light  in  Heaven  or  Earth  beside  our  love  did 
fail.— 

k2 


114 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


Yot. — yet — one  brief  relapse,  like  the  last  beam 
Of  dyinu:  flames,  the  sWiiiiless  air  around 
}I\ii»t;  silent  and  serene. — A  blood-red  p:Ioam 
Burst  u|)wards,  hurlinfi  fiercely  from  the  ground 
The  globed  smoke. — I  luard  the  mighty  sound 
Of  its  u|irise,  like  a  temjiestuous  ocean; 
And,  through  its  chasms  I  saw,  as  in  a  swound, 
The  Tyrant's  child  full  without  life  or  motion 
Before  his  throne,  subdued  by  some  unseen  emotion. 


And  is  tills  (loath  1  The  pyre  has  disappeared, 
The  Pestik-nce,  the  Tyrant,  and  the  throng; 
The  tlamcs  grow  silent — slowly  there  is  heard 
The  music  of  a  breath-suspending  song. 
Which,  like  the  kiss  of  love  when  life  is  young. 
Steeps  the  faint  eyes  in  darkness  sweet  and  deep  ; 
\Mth  ever-changing  notes  it  floats  along, 
Till  on  my  passive  soul  there  seemed  to  creep 
A  melody,  like  waves  on  wrinkled  sands  that  leap. 

XVIII. 

The  warm  touch  of  a  soft  and  tremulous  hand 
Wakened  mo  then  ; '  lo,  Cy  thna  sate  reclined 
Beside  me,  on  the  waved  and  golden  sand 
Of  a  clear  pool,  iipon  a  hank  o'ertwincd      [wind 
M'ith  strange  and  star-bright  flowers,  which  to  the 
Breathed  divine  odour;  high  above,  was  spread 
The  emerald  heaven  of  trees  of  unknown  kind, 
Whose  moonlight  blooms  and  bright  fruit  overhead 
A  shadow,  which  was  light,  upon  the  waters  shed. 


And  roundabout  sloped  many  a  lawny  mountain 
With  incense-bearing  forests,  and  vast  caves 
Of  marble  radiance  to  that  mighty  fountain  ; 
Arid  where  the  flood  its  own  bright  margin  laves. 
Their  echoes  talk  with  its  eternal  waves, 
A^'hich.  from  the  depths  whose  jagged  cavcrnsbreed 
Their  unre])osing  strife,  it  lifts  and  heaves. 
Till  through  a  chasm  of  hills  they  roll,  and  feed 
A  river  dce{),  wjiich  flies  with  smooth  but  arrowy 
speed. 

XX. 

As  we  sate  gazing  in  a  trance  of  wonder, 
A  boat  aj)proaclied,  borne  by  the  musical  air 
Along  the  waves,  which  sung  and  sparkled  under 
Its  raj)id  keel — a  winged  shape  sate  there, 
A  child  with  silver-shining  wings,  so  fair. 
That  as  her  bark  did  through  the  waters  ghdc, 
The  shadow  of  the  lingering  waves  did  wear 
liight,  as  from  starry  beams ;  from  side  to  side, 
Wliile  veering  to  the  wind,  her   plumes  the  bark 
did  guide. 

XXI. 

The  boat  was  one  curved  shell  of  hollow  pearl, 
Almost  translucent  with  the  hght  divine 
Of  her  within  ;  the  prow  and  stern  did  curl, 
Horned  on  high,  like  the  young  moon  supine, 
Wiien,  o'er  dim  twilight  mountains  dark  with  pine, 
It  floats  u|ion  the  sunset's  sea  of  beams, 
Whose  cjoldcn  waves  in  many  a  purple  line 
Fade  fist,  till,  bnriie  on  sunlight's  ebbing  streams, 
Dilating,  on  earth's  verge  the  sunken  meteor  gleams. 


Its  keel  has  struck  the  ^ands  beside  our  feet; — 
Then  Cythna  turned  to  me,  and  from  her  eyes 
Which  swam  with  unshed  tears,  a  look  more  sweet 
Than  happy  love,  a  wild  and  glad  surprise, 
(ilanced  as  she  spake  :  "  Ay,  Ulis  is  Paradise 
And  not  a  dream,  and  we  are  all  united  ! 
Lo,  tlvit  is  mine  own  child,  who,  in  the  guise 
Ot  madness,  came  like  day  to  one  benighted 
In  lonesome  woods :  my  heart  is  now  too  well  re- 
quited !" 

XXIII. 

And  then  she  wejit  aloud,  and  in  her  arms 
Clasped  that  bright  Shape,  less  marvellously  fair 
Than  her  own  human  hues  and  living  charms; 
Which,  as  she  leaned  in  passion's  silence  there. 
Breathed  warmth  on  the  cold  bosom  of  the  air. 
Which  seemed  to  blush  and  tremble  with  delight ; 
The  glossy  darkness  of  her  streaming  hair 
Fell  o'er  that  snowy  child,  and  wrapt  from  sight 
The  fond  and  long  embrace  which  did  their  hearts 
unite. 


Then  the  bright  child,  the  plumed  Seraph,  came, 
And  fixed  its  blue  and  beaming  eyes  on  mine, 
And  said,  "  I  was  disturbed  by  tremulous  shame 
When  once  we  met,  yet  knew  that  I  was  thine 
From  the  same  hour  in  which  thy  lips  divine 
Kiiulled  a  clinging  dream  within  my  brain, 
Which  ever  waked  when  I  might  sleep,  to  twine 
Thine  image  with  her  memory  dear — again 
We  meet ;  exempted  now  from  mortal  fear  or  pain. 

XXV. 

"  AVhen  the  consuming  flames  had%vrapt  ye  round, 
The  hope  which  I  had  cherished  went  away  ; 
I  fell  in  agony  on  the  Senseless  ground. 
And  hid  mine  eyes  in  dust,  and  far  astray 
My  mind  was  gone,  when  bright,  like  dawning  day, 
'i'lie  Spectre  of  the  Plague  liefore  me  flew. 
And  breathed  upon  my  lips,  and  seemed  to  say, 
'  They  wait  for  thee,  beloved  !' — then  I  knew 
The  death-mark  on  my  breast,  and   became  cakn 
anew. 

XXVI. 

"  It  was  the  calm  of  love — for  I  was  dying. 
I  saw  the  black  and  half-extinguished  pyre 
In  its  own  gray  and  shrunken  ashes  lying ; 
'J'he  pitchy  smoke  of  the  departed  fire 
Still  hung  in  many  a  hollow  dome  and  spire 
Aliove  the  towers,  like  night ;  beneath  whose  shade, 
Awed  by  the  ending  of  their  own  desire. 
The  armies  stood  ;  a  vacancy  was  made 
In  expectiition's  depth,  and  so  they  stood  dismayed. 

xxvn. 

"  The  frightful  silence  of  that  altered  mood, 
'J'Ik'  tortures  of  the  dying  clove  alone. 
Till  one  uprose  among  the  multitude. 
And  said — 'The  flood  of  time  is  rolling  on. 
We  stand  upon  its  brink,  whilst  t/ic>/  are  gone 
To  glide  in  peace  down  death's  mysterious  stream. 
Have  ye  done  well !  They  moulder  flesh  and  bone, 
\V'ho  niiuht  have  made  this  life's  envenomed  dream 
A  sweeter  draught  than  ye  will  ever  taste,  I  deem. 


THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


115 


XXVIII. 

«  '  These  perish  as  tlic  Rood  ami  great  of  yore 
Have  perished,  and  their  iiuirdercrs  will  repent. 
Yes,  vain  and  barren  tears  sliall  (low  before 
Yon  siiroke  has  fiided  from  the  firmament 
Even  for  this  eause,  that  ye,  who  must  lament 
The  death  of  those  that  made  this  world  so  fair, 
Cannot  recall  them  now ;  but  then  is  lent 
To  man  the  wisdom  of  a  hitjh  despair, 
When  such  can  die,  and  he  live  on  and  linger  here. 

XXIX. 

" '  Ay,  ye  mav  fear  not  now  the  Pestilence, 
From  fabled  hell  as  hy  a  charm  withdrawn  ; 
xVU  power  and  fiithmust  pass,  since  calmly  hence 
In  pain  and  fire  have  unbelievers  gone ; 
Anil  j^e  must  sadly  turn  away,  and  moan 
In  secret,  to  his  home  each  one  returning; 
And  to  long  ages  shall  this  hour  be  known  ; 
And  slowly  shall  its  memory,  ever  burning. 
Fill    this  dark   night   of  things  with    an    eternal 


«  <  For  me  the  world  has  grown  too  void  and  cold, 
Since  hope  pursues  immortal  destiny 
With  steps  thus  slow — ^therefore  shall  ye  behold 
How  those  who  love,  yet  fear  not,  dare  to  die; 
Tell  to  your  children  this  !'  then  suddenly 
He  sheathed  a  dagger  in  his  heart,  and  fell ; 
My  brain  grew  dark  in  death,  and  yet  to  me 
There  came  a  murmur  from  the  crowd  to  tell 
Of  deep  and  mighty  change  which  suddenly  befell. 

XXXI. 

"  Then  suddenly  I  stood  a  winged  Thought 
Before  the  immortal  Senate,  and  the  seat 
Of  that  star-shining  spirit,  whence  is  wrought 
The  strength  of  its  dominion,  good  and  great. 
The  better  Genius  of  this  world's  estate. 
His  realm  around  one  mighty  Fane  is  spread, 
Elysian  islands  bright  and  fortunate, 
Calm  dwellings  of  the  free  and  happy  dead, 
Where  I  am  sent  to  lead !"    These  winged  words 
she  said, 

XXXII. 

And  with  the  silence  of  her  eloquent  smile, 
Bade  us  embark  in  her  divine,  canoe ; 
Then  at  the  helm  we  took  our  seat,  the  while 
Above  her  head  those  plumes  of  dazzling  hue 

•Into  the  winds'  invisible  stream  she  threw. 
Sitting  beside  the  prow ;  like  gossamer, 
On  the  swift  breath  of  morn,  the  vessel  flew 
O'er  the  bright  whirlpools  of  that  fountain  foir. 

Whose  shores  receded  fast,  while  we  seemed  lin- 
gering there ; 

XXXIII. 

Till  down  that  mighty  stream  dark,  calm,  and  fleet. 
Between  a  chasm  of  cedar  mountains  riven,  [feet 
Chased  by  the  thronging  winds,  whose  viewless 
As  swift  as  twinkling  beams,  had,  under  Heaven, 
From  woods  and  waves  wild  sovuids  and  odours 

driven. 
The  boat  flew  visibly — three  nights  and  days, 
Borne  like  a  cloud  through  morn,  and  noon,  and 
We  sailed  along  the  winding  watery  ways  [even. 
Of  the  vast  stream,  a  long  and  labyrinthine  maze. 


XXXIV. 

A  scene  of  joy  and  wonder  to  behold 
That  river's  shapes  and  shadows  changing  ever. 
Where  the  broad  sunrise  filled  with  deepeninggold 
Its  whirlpools,  where  all  hues  did  spread  and  (piivcr 
And  where  melodious  falls  did  burst  and  shiver 
Among  rocks  clad  with  flowers,  the  foam  and  spray 
Sparkled  like  stars  upon  the  sunny  river, 
Or  when  the  moonlight  poured  a  holier  day,  [lay. 
One  vast  and  ghttcring  lake  around  gi-een  islands 

XXXV. 

Morn,  noon,  and  even,  that  boat  of  pearl  outran 
The  streams  which  bore  it,  like  the  arrowy  cloud, 
Of  tempest,  or  the  speedier  thought  of  man, 
Which  flieth  fijrlh  and  cannot  make  abode ;  [glode. 
Sometimes  through   forests,  deep   like  night,  we 
Between  the  walls  of  mighty  mountains  crowned 
With  Cvclopean  piles,  whose  turrets  proud, 
The  homes  of  the  departed,  dimly  frowned 
O'er  the  bright  waves  which  girt  their  dark  foun- 
dations round. 

XXXVI. 

Sometimes  between  the  wide  and  flowering  mea- 
Mile  after  mile  we  sailed,  and  'twas  delight  [dows, 
To  see  far  ofi"  the  sunbeams  chase  the  shadows 
Over  the  grass ;  sometimes  beneath  the  night 
Of  wide  and  vaulted  caves,  whose  roofs  were  bright 
With  starry  gems,  we  fled,  whilst  from  their  deep 
And  dark  green  chasms,  shades  beautiful  and  white. 
Amid  sweet  sounds  across  our  path  would  sweep 

Like  swift  and  lovely  dreams  tliat  walk  the  waves 
of  sleep. 

xxxvii. 
And  ever  as  we  sailed,  our  minds  were  full 
Of  love  and  wisdom,  which  would  overflow 
In  converse  wild,  and  sweet,  and  wonderful ; 
And  in  quick  smiles  whose  light  would  come  and 
Like  music  o'er  wide  waves,  and  in  the  flow  [go, 
Of  sudden  tears,  and  in  the  mute  caress — 
For  a  deep  shade  was  cleft,  and  we  did  know. 
That  virtue,  though  obscured  on  Earth,  not  less 

S^^r^'ives  all  mortal  change  in  lasting  loveliness. 

XXXVIII. 

Three  days  and  nights  we  sailed,  as  thought  and 

feeling 
Number  delightful  hours — for  through  the  sky 
The  sphered  lamps  of  day  and  night,  reveahng 
New  changes  and  new  glories,  rolled  on  high, 
Sun,  Moon,  and- moonlike  lamps,  the  progeny 
Of  a  diviner  Heaven,  serene  and  fair: 
On  the  fourth  day,  wild  as  a  wind-wrought  sea, 
The  stream  became,  and  fast  and  faster  bare 
The  spirit-winged  boat,  steadily  speeding  there. 

XXXIX. 

Steadily  and  swift,  where  the  waves  rolled  like 

mountains 
Within  the  vast  ravine,  whose  rifts  did  pour 
Tumultuous  floods  from  their  ten  thousand  foun- 
The  thunder  of  whose  earth-uplifting  roar    [tains. 
Made  the  air  sweep  in  whirlwinds  from  the  shore, 
Calm  as  a  shade,  the  boat  of  that  fair  child 
Securely  fled,  that  rapid  stress  before, 
Amid  the  topmost  spray,  and  sunbows  wild. 
Wreathed  in  the  silver  mist :  in  joy  and  pride  we 

smiled. 


116 


EDITOR'S    IVOTE    OX    T  PI  E    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


The  torrent  of  that  wide  and  raffincr  river 
Is  passed,  and  our  at-rial  speed  t!us))ended. 
We  look  behind ;  a  golden  mist  did  quiver 
^\'hcn  its  wild  surijes  with  the  lake  were  blended ; 
Our  bark  hunu  there,  as  one  line  suspended 
Between  two  heavens,  that  windless  waveless  lake ; 
Which  four  great  cataracts  from  four  vales,  attended 
By  mists,  aye  feed,  from  rocks  and  clouds  they 
break. 
And  of  that  azure  sea  a  silent  refuge  make. 


Motionless  resting  on  the  lake  awhile, 
I  saw  its  marge  of  snow-briirht  mountains  rear 
Their  j)eaks  aloft,  I  saw  each  radiant  isle, 
And  in  the  midst,  afar,  even  like  a  .sj)here 
Hung  in  one  hollow  sky,  did  there  a{)pear 
The  Temple  of  the  S})irit ;  on  the  sound 
Which  issued  thence,  drawn  nearer  and  more  near, 
Like  the  swift  uioon  this  glorious  earth  around, 
The  charmed  boat  approached,  and  there  its  haven 
found. 


NOTE  ON  THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 

BY  THE  EDITOR. 


Shelley  possessed  two  remarkable  qualities  of 
intellect — a  brilliant  imagination  and  a  logical 
exactness  of  reason.  His  inclinations  led  him  (he 
fancied)  almost  alike  to  poetry  and  metaphysical 
discussions.  I  say  "he  fancied,"  because  I  believe 
the  former  to  have  been  paramount,  and  that  it 
would  have  gained  the  mastery  even  had  he 
struggled  against  it.  However,  he  said  that  he 
deliberated  at  one  time  whether  he  should  dedicate 
liimsclf  to  poetry  or  metaphysics,  and  resolving  on 
the  former,  he  educated  himself  for  it,  discarding 
in  a  great  measure  his  philosophical  pursuits,  and 
engaging  himself  in  the  study  of  the  poets  of 
Greece,  Italy,  and  England.  To  these  may  be 
added  a  constant  perusal  of  portions  of  the  Old 
Testament — the  Psalms,  the  book  of  Job,  the 
Prophet  Isaiah,  and  others,  the  sublime  poetry  of 
which  filled  him  with  delight. 

As  a  poet,  his  intellect  and  compositions  were 
powerfully  influenced  by  exterior  circumstances, 
and  especially  by  his  place  of  abode.  He  was 
very  fond  of  travelling,  and  ill  health  increased 
this  restlessness.  The  sufferings  occasioned  by  a 
cold  English  winter,  made  him  pine,  esjjecially  when 
our  colder  spring  arrived,  for  a  more  genial  clijnate. 
In  1816  he  again  visited  Switzerland,  and  rented 
a  house  on  the  banks  of  the  lake  of  Geneva ;  and 
many  a  day,  in  cloud  or  sunshine,  was  passed  alone 
in  his  boat — sailing  as  the  wind  listed,  or  weltering 
on  the  calm  waters.  The  majestic  aspect  of  nature 
ministered  such  thoughts  as  he  afterwards  enwove 
in  verse.  His  lines  on  the  Bridge  of  the  Arve, 
and  his  Hymn  to  Intellectual  beauty,  were  written 
at' this  time.  Perhaps  during  this  summer  his 
genius  was  checked  by  association  with  another 
poet  whose  nature  was  utterly  dissimilar  to  his 
own,  yet  who,  in  the  poem  he  wrote  at  that  time, 
gave  tokens  that  he  shared  for  a  period  the  more 


abstract  and  ctherialized  inspiration  of  Shelley. 
The  saddest  events  awaited  his  return  to  England  ; 
but  such  was  his  fear  to  wound  the  feelings  of 
others,  that  he  never  expressed  the  anguish  he  felt, 
and  seldom  gave  vent  to  the  indignation  roused  by 
the  persecutions  he  underwent ;  while  the  course 
of  deep  unexpressed  passion,  and  the  sense  of  in- 
jury, engendered  the  desire  to  embody  themselves 
in  forms  defecated  of  all  the  weakness  and  evil 
which  cling  to  real  life. 

He  chose  therefore  for  his  hero  a  youth  nourished 
in  dreams  of  liberty,  some  of  whose  actions  are  in 
direct  opposition  to  the  opinions  of  the  world  ;  but 
who  is  animated  throughout  by  an  ardent  love  of 
Mrtue,  and  a  resolution  to  confer  the  boons  of 
political  and  intellectual  freedom  on  his  fellow- 
creatures.  He  created  for  this  youth  a  woman 
such  as  he  delighted  to  imagine — full  of  enthusiasm 
for  the  same  objects ;  and  they  both,  with  will  un- 
vanquished  and  the  deepest  sense  of  the  justice  of 
their  cause,  met  adversity  and  death.  There  exists 
in  this  poem  a  memorial  of  a  friend  of  his  youth, 
The  character  of  the  old  man  \yho  liberates  Laon 
from  his  tower-prison,  and  tends  on  him  in  sick- 
ness, is  founded  on  that  of  Doctor  Lind,  who,  when 
Shelley  was  at  Eton,  had  often  stood  by  to  befriend 
and  support  him,  and  whose  name  he  never  men- 
tioned without  love  and  veneration. 

During  the  year  1817,  wc  were  established  at 
Marlow,  in  Buckinghamshire.  Shelley's  choice  of 
abode  was  fixed  chiefly  by  this  town  being  at  no 
great  distance  from  London,  and  its  neighbourhood 
to  the  Thames.  The  poem  was  written  in  his  boat, 
as  it  floated  under  the  beech  groves  of  Bisham,  or 
during  wanderings  in  the  neighbouring  country, 
wliich  is  distinguished  for  peculiar  beauty.  The 
chalk  hills    break  into  clills   that  overhang   the 


EDITOR'S    KOTE    ON    THE    REVOLT    OF    ISLAM. 


117 


Thames,  or  form  valleys  clothed  with  beech ;  the 
wilder  portion  of  the  country  is  rendered  beautiful 
by  exuberant  vegetation ;  and  the  cultivated  part 
is  peculiarly  fertile.  With  all  this  wealth  of  nature 
which,  either  in  the  form  of  gentlemen's  parks  or 
soil  dedicated  to  agriculture,  flourishes  around, 
Marlow  was  inhabited  (I  hope  it  is  altered  now) 
by  a  very  poor  population.  The  women  are  lace- 
makers,  and  lose  their  health  by  sedentary  labour, 
for  which  they  were  very  ill  paid.  The  poor-laws 
ground  to  the  dust  not  only  the  paupers,  but  those 
who  had  risen  just  above  that  state,  and  were 
obliged  to  pay  poor-rates.  The  changes  produced 
by  peace  following  a  long  war,  and  a  bad  harvest, 
brought  with  them  the  most  heart-rending  evils 
to  the  poor.  Shelley  aflbrded  what  alleviation  he 
could.  In  the  winter,  while  bringing  out  his  poem, 
he  had  a  severe  attack  of  ophthalmia,  caught  while 
visiting  the  poor  cottages.  I  mention  these  things, 
— for  this  minute  and  active  sympathy  with  his 
fellow-creatures  gives  a  thousand-fold  interest  to 
his  speculations,  and  stamps  with  reality  his 
pleadings  for  the  human  race. 

The  poem,  bold  in  its  opinions  and  uncompro- 
mising in  their  expression,  met  with  many  cen- 
surers,  not  oidy  among  those  who  allow  of  no  vir- 
tue but  such  as  supports  the  cause  they  espouse, 
but  even  among  those  whose  opinions  were  similar 
to  his  own.  I  extract  a  portion  of  a  letter  WTitten 
in  answer  to  one  of  these  friends ;  it  best  details 
the  impulses  of  Shelley's  mind  and  his  motives  :  it 
was  written  with  entire  unreserve ;  and  is  there- 
for© a  precious  monument  of  his  ovm  opinion  of 
his  powers,  of  the  purity  of  his  designs,  and  the 
ardour  with  which  he  clung,  in  adversity  and 
through  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death,  to  views 
from  which  he  behaved  the  permanent  happiness 
of  mankind  must  eventually  spring. 

"Marlow,  Dee.  11,  1817. 
"I  have  read  and  considered  all  that  you  say 
about  my  general  powers,  and  the  particular  in- 
stance of  the  Poem  in  which  I  have  attempted  to 
develope  them.  Nothing  can  be  more  satisfiictory 
to  me  than  the  interest  which  your  admonitions 
express.  But  I  think  you  are  mistaken  in  some 
points  with  regard  to  the  peculiar  nature  of  my 
powers,  whatever  be  their  amount.  I  listened  with 
deference  and  self-suspicion  to  your  censures  of 
'  the  Revolt  of  Isliim  ;'  but  the  productions  of  mine 
which  you  commend  hold  a  very  low  place  in  my 


own  esteem ;  and  this  reassured  me,  in  some  de- 
gree at  least.     The  poem  was  produced  by  a  series 
of  thoughts  which  filled  my  mind  with  unbounded 
and  sustained  enthusiasm.     I  felt  the  precarious- 
ness  of  my  life,  and  I  engaged  in  this  task,  resolved 
to  leave  some  record  of  myself.     Much  of  what 
the  volume  contains  was  written  with  the  same 
feeling,  as  real,  though  not  so  prophetic,  as  the 
communications  of  a  dying  man.     I  never  pre- 
sumed indeed  to  consider  it  any  thing  approaching 
to  faultless;  but  when   I  consider  contemporary 
productions   of  the   same   apparent  pretensions,  I 
own  I  was  filled  with  confidence.     I  felt  that  it 
was  in  many  respects  a  genuine  picture  of  my 
own  mind.     I  felt  that  the  sentiments  were  true, 
not  assumed.     And  in  this  have  I  long  believed 
that  my  power  consists;  in  sympathy  and  that 
part  of  the  imagination  which  relates  to  sentiment 
and  contemplation.     I  am  formed,  if  for  any  thing 
not  in  common  with  the  herd  of  mankind,  to  ap- 
prehend minute  and  remote  distinctions  of  feeling, 
whether  relative  to  external  nature  or  the  living 
beings  vvhich  surround  us,  and  to  communicate  the 
conceptions  which  result  from  considering  either 
the  moral  or  the  material  universe  as  a  whole.  Of 
course,  I  believe   these  faculties,   which  perhaps 
comprehend  all  that  is  sublime  in  man,  to  exist 
very  imperfectly  in  my  own  mind.     But  when  you 
advert  to  my  chancery  paper,  a  cold,  forced,  unim- 
passioned,  insignificant  piece  of  cramped  and  cau- 
tious  argument ;    and  to   the   little    scrap   about 
Mandeville,  which  expressed  my  feelings  indeed, 
but  cost  scarcely  two  minutes'  thought  to  express, 
as  specimens  of  my  powers,  more  favourable  than 
that  which  grew  as  it  were  from  '  the  agony  and 
bloody  sweat'  of  intellectual  travail ;  surely  I  must 
feel  that  in  some  manner,  either  I  am  mistaken  in 
believing  that  I  have  any  talent  at  all,  or  you  in 
the  selection  of  the  specimens  of  it. 

"Yet  after  all,  I  cannot  but  be  conscious  in 
much  of  what  I  write,  of  an  absence  of  that  tran- 
quillity which  is  the  attribute  and  accompaniment 
of  power.  This  feeling  alone  would  make  your 
most  kind  and  wise  admonitions,  on  the  subject  of 
the  economy  of  intellectual  force,  valuable  to  me. 
And  if  I  live,  or  if  I  see  any  trust  in  coming  years, 
doubt  not  but  that  I  shall  do  something,  whatever 
it  may  be,  which  a  serious  and  earnest  estimate  of 
my  powers  will  suggest  to  me,  and  which  will  be 
in  every  respect  accommodated  to  their  utmost 
limits." 


END   OF   THE   REVOLT   OF   ISLAM. 


rrxOMETIIEUS   U^'BOUND 

'^  Cnrical  Drama. 

L\  FOUR  ACTS. 
Audisne  hxc  Aniphiarae,  sub  terrain  abdite  ? 


PREFACE. 

The  Greek  trac^ic  writers,  in  selecting  as  their 
subject  any  portion  of  their  National  history  or 
mythology,  employed  in  their  treatment  of  it  a 
certain  arbitrary  discretion.  They  by  no  means 
conceived  themselves  bound  to  adhere  to  the  com- 
mon interpretation,  or  to  imitate  in  story,  as  in 
title,  their  rivals  and  predecessors.  Such  a  system 
would  have  amounted  to  a  resignation  of  those 
claims  to  preference  over  their  competitors  which 
incited  the  composition.  The  Agamemnonian 
story  was  exhibited  on  the  Athenian  theatre  with 
as  many  variations  as  dramas. 

I  have  presumed  to  employ  a  similar  license. 
The  "  Prometheus  Unbound"'  of  ^Eschylus  sup- 
posed the  reconciliation  of  .Tupiter  with  his  victim 
as  the  price  of  the  disclosure  of  the  danger  threat- 
ened to  his  empire  by  the  consummation  of  his 
marriage  with  Thetis.  Thetis,  according  to  this 
view  of  the  subject,  was  given  in  marriage  to  Pe- 
leus,  and  Prometheus,  by  the  permission  of  Jupiter, 
delivered  from  his  captivity  by  Hercules.  Had  I 
framed  my  storj'  on  this  model,  I  should  have 
done  no  more  than  have  attempted  to  restore  the 
lost  drama  of  -^schylus ;  an  ambition,  which,  if 
my  preference  to  this  mode  of  treating  the  subject 
had  incited  me  to  cherish,  the  recollection  of  the 
high  comparison  such  an  attempt  would  challenge 
might  well  abate.  But,  in  truth,  I  was  averse 
firom  a  catastrophe  so  feeble  as  that  of  reconciling 
the  Champion  with  the  Oppressor  of  mankind. 
The  moral  interest  of  the  fable,  which  is  so  pow- 
erfully sustained  by  the  sufTerings  and  endurance 
of  Prometheus,  would  be  annihilated  if  we  could 
conceive  of  him  as  unsaying  his  high  language 
and  quailing  before  his  successful  and  perfidious 
adversarj'.  The  only  imaginary  being  resembling 
in  any  degree  Prometheus,  is  Satan :  and  Prome- 
theus is,  in  my  judgment,  a  more  poetical  charac- 
ter than  Satan,  because,  in  addition  to  courage, 
and  majesty,  and  firm  and  patient  opposition  to 
omnipotent  force,  lie  is  susceptil>le  of  being  de- 
scribed as  exempt  from  the  taints  of  ambition, 
envy,  revenge,  and  a  desire  for  personal  aggran- 
dizement, which,  in  the  Hero  of  Paradise  Lost,  in- 
terfere with  the  interest.  The  character  of  Satan 
encjenders  in  the  mind  a  pernicious  casuistry  which 
leads  us  to  weigh  hi«  faults  with  his  wroncrs,  and 
to  excuse  the  former  because  the  latter  exceed  all 
(119) 


measure.  In  the  minds  of  those  who  consider  that 
magnificent  fiction  with  a  religious  feeling,  it  en- 
genders something  worse.  But  Prometheus  is,  as 
it  were,  the  type  of  the  highest  perfection  of  moral 
and  intellectual  nature,  impelled  by  the  purest  and 
the  truest  motives  to  the  best  and  noblest  ends. 

This  Poem  was  chiefly  written  upon  the  moun- 
tainous ruins  of  the  Baths  of  Caracalla,  among  the 
flowery  glades,  and  thickets  of  odoriferous  blossom- 
ing trees,  which  are  extended  in  ever-winding 
labyrinths  upon  its  immense  platforms  and  dizzy 
arches  suspended  in  the  air.  The  bright  blue  sky 
of  Rome,  and  the  eiTect  of  the  vigorous  awakening 
of  spring  in  that  divinest  climate,  and  the  new  life 
with  which  it  drenches  the  spirits  even  to  hitoxi- 
cation,  were  the  inspiration  of  this  drama. 

The  imagery-  which  I  have  employed  will  be 
found,  in  many  mstances,  to  have  been  drawn 
from  the  operations  of  the  human  mind,  or  fi-om 
those  external  actions  by^  which  they  are  expressed. 
This  is  unusual  in  modern  poetry,  although  Dante 
and  Shakspeare  are  full  of  instances  of  the  same 
kind :  Dante  indeed  more  than  any  other  poet,  and 
with  greater  success.  But  the  Greek  poets,  as 
WTiters  to  whom  no  resource  of  awakening  the 
sympathy  of  their  contcm}>oraries  was  unknown, 
were  in  the  habitual  use  of  this  power;  and  it  is 
the  study  of  their  works  (since  a  higher  merit 
would  probably  be  denied  me)  to  which  I  am  will- 
ing that  my  readers  should  impute  this  singidarity. 

One  word  is  due  in  candour  to  the  degree  in 
which  the  study  of  contemporary  writings  may 
have  tinged  my  composition,  for  such  has  been  a 
topic  of  censure  with  regard  to  poems  far  more 
popular,  and,  indeed,  more  deservedly  popular, 
than  mine.  It  is  impossible  that  any  one  who 
inhabits  the  same  age  with  such  writers  as  those 
who  stand  in  the  foremost  ranks  of  our  own,  can 
conscientiously  assure  himself  that  his  language 
and  tone  of  thought  may  not  have  been  moiiilied 
by  the  study  of  the  productions  of  those  extraordi- 
nary intellect'^.  It  is  true,  that,  not  the  spirit  of 
their  genius,  but  the  forms  in  which  it  has  mani- 
fested itself,  are  due  less  to  the  peculiarities  of  their 
own  minds  than  to  the  peculiarity  of  the  moral 
and  intellectual  condition  of  the  minds  among 
which  they  have  been  produced.  Thus  a  nunilier 
of  writers  possess  the  form,  whilst  they  want  the 
spirit  of  those  whom,  it  is  alleged,  they  imitate; 
because  the  former  is  the  endowment  of  the  age  in 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 


119 


wluch  they  live,  and  the  latter  must  be  the  un- 
comipiiniciitcd  lightning  of  their  own  mind. 

The  peculiar  style  of  intense  mid  conipit'hpnsive 
imagery  whieli  distinguishes  the  modern  literature 
of  England,  has  not  been,  as  a  general  |)ower,  the 
product  of  the  imitation  of  any  particular  writer. 
The  mass  of  capabilities  remains  at  every  period 
materially  the  same ;  the  circumstances  which 
awaken  it  to  action  perpetually  change.  If  Eng- 
land WPTC  divided  into  foity  rcjiublics,  each  equal 
in  population  and  extent  to  Athens,  there  is  no 
reason  to  suppose  but  that,  under  institutions  not 
more  perfect  than  those  of  Athens,  each  would 
produce  philosophers  and  poets  equal  to  those  who 
(if  we  except  Shakspeare)  have  never  been  sur- 
passed. We  owe  the  great  writers  of  the  golden 
age  of  our  literature  to  that  fervid  awakening  of 
the  public  mind  which  shook  to  dust  the  oldest 
and  most  o]ipressive  form  of  the  Christian  religion. 
We  owe  Milton  to  the  progress  and  developement 
of  the  same  spirit:  the  sacred  Milton  was,  let  it 
ever  be  remembered,  a  republican,  and  a  bold  in- 
quirer into  morals  and  religion.  The  great  writers 
of  our  own  age  are,  we  have  reason  to  suppose, 
the  companions  and  forerunners  of  some  unim- 
agined  change  in  our  social  condition,  or  the  opi- 
nions which  cement  it.  The  cloud  of  mind  is 
discharging  its  collected  lightning,  and  the  equi- 
librium between  institutions  and  opinions  is  now 
restoring,  or  is  about  to  be  restored. 

As  to  imitation,  poetry  is  a  mimetic  art.  It 
creates,  but  it  creates  by  combination  and  repre- 
sentation. Poetical  abstractions  are  beautiful  and 
new,  not  because  the  portions  of  which  they  are 
composed  had  no  previous  existence  in  the  mind 
of  man,  or  in  nature,  but  because  the  whole  pro- 
duced by  their  combination  has  some  intelligible 
and  i)eautiful  analogy  with  those  sources  of  emo- 
tion and  thought,  and  with  the  contemporary  con- 
dition of  them:  one  great  poet  is  a  masterpiece  of 
nature,  which  another  not  only  ought  to  study  but 
must  study.  He  might  as  wisely  and  as  easily 
determine  that  his  mind  should  no  longer  be  the 
mirror  of  all  that  is  lovely  in  the  visible  universe, 
as  exclude  from  his  contemplation  the  beautiful 
which  exists  in  the  writings  of  a  great  contempo- 
rary. The  pretence  of  doing  it  would  be  a  pre- 
sumption in  any  but  the  greatest ;  the  etfect,  even 
in  him,  would  be  strained,  unnatural,  and  ineffect- 
ual. A  poet  is  the  combined  product  of  such  in- 
ternal powers  as  modify  the  nature  of  others ;  and 
of  such  external  influences  as  excite  and  sustain 
these  powers;  he  is  not  one,  but  both.  Every 
man's  .lind  is,  in  this  respect,  modified  by  all  the 
objects  of  nature  and  art ;  by  every  word  and  every 
suggestion  which  he  ever  admitted  to  act  upon  his 


consciousness;  it  is  the  mirror  upon  which  all 
forms  are  reflected,  and  in  which  they  compose  one 
form.  Poets,  not  otherwise  than  ])hiloHophers, 
painters,  sculptors,  and  musicians,  are,  in  one  sense, 
the  creators,  and,  in  another,  the  creations,  of  their 
age.  From  this  •subjection  the  loftiest  do  not 
escape.  There  is  a  similarity  between  Homer  and 
Hesiod, between  iEschylus  and  Euripedes, between 
Virgil  and  Horace,  between  Dante  and  Petrarch, 
between  Shakspeare  and  Fletcher,  between  Dry- 
den  and  Pope ;  each  has  a  generic  resemblance 
under  which  their  specific  distinctions  are  arranged. 
If  this  similarity  be  the  result  of  imitation,  I  am 
vv'illing  to  confess  that  I  have  imitated. 

Let  this  ojiportunity  be  conceded  to  me  of  ac- 
knowledging that  I  have,  what  a  Scotch  philosopher 
characteristically  terms,  "  a  passion  for  reforming 
the  world:"  what  passion  incited  him  to  write  and 
publish  his  book,  he  omits  to  explain.  For  my 
part,  I  had  rather  be  damned  with  Plato  and  Lord 
Bacon,  than  go  to  heaven  with  Paley  and  Malthus. 
But  it  is  a  mistake  to  suppose  that  I  dedicate  my 
poetical  compositions  solely  to  the  direct  enforce- 
ment of  reform,  or  that  I  consider  them  in  any  de- 
gree as  containing  a  reasoned  system  on  the  tlieory 
of  human  life.  Didactic  poetry  is  my  abhorrence; 
nothing  can  be  equally  well  expressed  in  prose 
that  is  not  tedious  and  supererogatory  in  verse. 
My  purpose  has  hitherto  been  simply  to  familiarize 
the  highly  refined  imagination  of  the  more  select 
classes  of  poetical  readers  with  beautiful  idealisms 
of  moral  excellence;  aviare  that  until  the  mind 
can  love,  and  admire,  and  trust,  and  hope,  and  en- 
dure, reasoned  principles  of  moral  conduct  are 
seeds  cast  upon  the  highway  of  life,  which  the  un- 
conscious passenger  tramples  into  dust,  although 
they  would  bear  the  harvest  of  his  happiness. 
Should  I  live  to  accomplish  what  I  purpose,  that  is, 
produce  a  systematical  history  of  what  appear  to  me 
to  be  the  genuine  elements  of  human  society,  let  not 
the  advocates  of  injustice  and  superstition  flatter 
themselves  that  I  should  take  ^schylus  rather 
than  Plato  as  my  model. 

The  having  spoken  of  myself  with  unaffected 
freedom  will  need  little  apology  with  the  candid; 
and  let  the  uncandid  consider  that  they  injure  me 
less  than  their  own  hearts  and  minds  by  misrepre- 
sentation. Whatever  talents  a  person  may  pos- 
sess to  amuse  and  instruct  others,  be  they  ever  so 
inconsiderable,  he  is  yet  bound  to  exert  them:  if 
his  attempt  be  ineffectual,  let  the  punishment  of 
an  unaccomplished  purpose  have  been  sufficient; 
let  none  troul)le  themselves  to  heap  the  dust  of 
oblivion  upon  his  eflbrts;  the  ])ile  they  raise  will 
betray  his  grave,  which  might  otherwise  have  been 
unknown. 


120 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 


Prometheus. 
Demogorgoit. 
Jupiter. 
The  Eartb. 

OcEAX. 

Apollo. 

Mercurt. 

Hercules. 


Asia,  ^ 

Panthea,  V      Oceanidcs, 

Ione,  \ 

The  Phantasm  of  Jupiter. 

The  Spirit  ok  the  Earth. 

The  Spirit  of  the  Moox. 

Spirits  of  the  Hours. 

Spirits.    Echoes.    Fauxs. 

Furies. 


ACT  I. 


Scejte,  a  Ravine  of  try  Rocks  in  the  Indian  Caucasus. 
Prometheus   is  discovered    bound  to  the  Precipice. 
Fanthea  and  Ione  are   sealed  at  his  feet.     Time, 
JVig'ht.     During  the  Scene,  Jilorning  slowly  breaks, 
PROMETHEUS. 

Monarch  of  Gods  and  D:einons,  and  all  Spirits 
But  One,  who  throne;  tliose  brishtand  rolling  worlds 
Which  Thou  atid  I  ah)nc  of  livinj^  things 
Behold  with  sli'cplcs.-i  eyes !  regard  this  Earth 
Made  multitudinous  with  thy  slaves,  whom  thou 
Rcquitcst  for  knee-worship,  prayer,  and  praise, 
And  toil,  and  hecatombs  of  broken  hearts, 
With  fear  and  self-contempt  and  barren  hope. 
Whilst  me,  who  am  thy  foe,  eyeless  in  hate, 
Hast  thou  made  reign  and  triumph,  to  thy  scorn. 
O'er  mine  own  misery  and  thy  vain  revenge. 
Three'  thousand  years  of  sleep-unsheltered  hours, 
And  moments  aye  divided  by  keen  pangs 
Till  they  seemed  years,  torture  and  solitude. 
Scorn  and  despair, — these  are  mine  empire. 
More  glorious  far  tl)an  that  whicii  thou  surveyest 
From  thine  uncnvied  throne,  O,  Mighty  God ! 
Ahnighly,  had  I  deigned  to  share  the  shame 
Of  thine  ill  tyrainiy,  and  hung  not  here 
Nailed  to  this  wall  of  eaglc-ballling  mountain, 
Black,  wintry,  dead,  unmeasured;  without  herb, 
Insect,  or  beast,  or  shape,  or  sound  of  life. 
Ah  me,  alas !  pain,  pain  ever,  for  ever ! 

No  change,  no  pause,  no  hope !  Yet  I  endure. 
I  ask  the  Earth,  have  not  the  mountains  felt  T 
I  ask  yon  Heaven,  the  all-beholding  Sun, 
Has  it  not  seen]     The  Sea.  in  storm  or  calm. 
Heaven's  ever-changing  Shadow,  spread  below, 
Have  its  deaf  waves  not  heard  my  agony ' 
Ah  me  !  alas,  pain,  pain  ever,  for  over ! 

The  crawling  glaciers  pierce  me  with  the  spears 
Of  their  mooii-frcezing  crystals;  the  bright  chains 
Eat  with  thi'ir  burning  cold  into  my  bones. 
Heaven's  winged  hound,  polluting  from  thy  lips 
His  beak  in  poison  not  his  own,  tears  up 
My  heart;  and  shapeless  sights  come  wandering  by, 
The  ghastly  peojile  of  the  realm  of  dream. 
Mocking  me :  and  the  EartlKjuake-ficnds  are  charged 


To  wrench  the  rivets  from  my  quivering  wounds 
When  the  rocks  split  and  close  again  behind : 
While  from  their  loud  abysses  howling  tlirong 
The  genii  of  the  storm,  urging  the  rage 
Of  whirlwind,  and  adiict  me  with  keen  hail. 
And  yet  to  me  welcome  is  day  and  night. 
Whether  one  br<>aks  the  hoar-frost  of  the  morn. 
Or  starry,  tUm,  and  slow,  the  other  climbs 
The  leaden-coloured  east;  for  then  they  lead 
The  wingless,  crawling  hours,  one  among  whom 
— As  some  dark  Priest  hales  the  reluctant  victi'iu — 
Shall  drag  thee,  cruel  King,  to  kiss  the  blood 
From  these  pale  feet,  which  then  might  trample  thee 
If  they  ilisdaincd  not  such  a  prostrate  slave. 
Disdain!     Ah  no!    I  pity  thee.     What  ruin 
\M11    hunt   thee  undefended  through   the   wide 

Heaven ! 
How  will  thy  soul,  cloven  to  its  depth  with  terror. 
Gape  like  a  hell  within  !  I  speak  in  grief. 
Not  exultation,  for  I  hate  no  more. 
As  then  ere  misery  made  me  wise.     The  curse 
Once    breathed    on    thee    I   would    recall.      Ye 

Mountains, 
Whose  many-voiced  Echoes,  through  the  mist 
Of  cataracts,  flung  the  thunder  of  that  s])ell ! 
Ye  icy  S[)rings,  stagnant  with  wrinkling  frost. 
Which  \ilirnt('d  to  hear  me,  and  then  crej)t 
Shuddering  through  India  !  Thou  sercnest  Air, 
Through  which  the  Sun  walks  burning  without 

beams ! 
And  ye  swift  Whirlwinds,  who  on  poised  wings 
Hung  mute  and  moveless  o'er  yon  hushed  abyss, 
As  thunder,  louder  than  your  own,  made  rock 
'J'hc  orbed  world  !  If  then  my  words  had  j)ower, 
'I'hough  I  am  changed  so  that  aught  evil  wish 
Is  dead  within;  although  no  memory  be 
Of  what  is  hate,  k-t  them  not  lose  it  now! 
What  was  that  curse  1  for  ye  all  heard  inc  speak. 

first  voice:  {from  the  mountaitui.) 
Thrice  three  hundred  thousand  years 

O'er  the  Earth(juake's  couch  we  stood: 
Oft,  as  men  convulsed  with  fears. 

We  trembled  in  our  nmltitude. 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 


121 


SECOND  VOICE :  {from  the  springs.) 
Tluiiidrrbolts  had  parched  our  water. 

We.  had  been  stained  with  bitter  blood, 
And  had  run  mute,  'mid  shrieks  of  slaughter, 

Through  a  city  and  a  soUtude. 

tiuhd  voice:   (from  the  air.) 
I  had  clothed,  since  Earth  uprose, 

Its  wastes  in  colours  not  their  own; 
And  oft  had  my  serene  repose 

Been  cloven  by  many  a  rending  groan. 

FOTTRTH  voice:   (froiTi  the  whirlwinds.') 
We  had  soared  beneath  these  mountains 

Unresting  ages ;  nor  had  thunder. 
Nor  yon  volcano's  flaming  fountains, 
Nor  any  power  above  or  under 
Ever  made  us  mute  with  wonder. 

FIKST  VOICE. 

But  never  bowed  our  snowy  crest 
As  at  the  voice  of  thine  unrest. 

SECOND   VOICE. 

Never  such  a  sound  before 
To  the  Indian  waves  we  bore. 
A  pilot  asleep  on  the  howling  sea 
Leaped  up  from  the  deck  in  agony. 
And  heard,  and  cried,  "  Ah,  wo  is  me !" 
And  died  as  mad  as  the  wild  waves  be. 

THIUD  VOICE. 

By  such  dread  words  from  Earth  to  Heaven 
My  still  realm  was  never  riven : 
Wlien  its  wound  was  closed,  there  stood 
Darkness  o'er  the  day  like  blood. 

FOURTH   VOICE. 

And  we  shrank  back  :  for  dreams  of  ruin 
To  frozen  caves  our  flight  pursuing 
Made  us  keep  silence — thus — and  thus — 
Though  silence  is  as  hell  to  us. 

THE   EARTH. 

The  tongueless  Caverns  of  the  craggy  hills 
Cried,  "  Misery  !"  then;  the  hollow  Heaven  replied, 
"  Misery  !"     And  the  Ocean's  purple  waves, 
Climbing  the  land,  howled  to  the  lashing  winds. 
And  the  pale  nations  heard  it,  "  Misery  !" 

PROMETHEUS. 

I  hear,  a  sound  of  voices:  not  the  voice 
W^hich  I  gave  forth.     Mother,  thy  sons  and  thou 
Scorn  him,  without  whose  all-enduring  will 
Beneath  the  fierce  omnipotence  of  Jove, 
Both  they  and  thou  had  vanished,  like  thin  mist 
Unrolled  on  the  morning  wind.    Know  ye  not  me, 
The  Titan  1     He  who  made  his  agony 
The  barrier  to  your  else  all-conquering  foe  1 
Oh,  rock-embosomed  lawns,  and  snow-fed  streams, 
Now  seen  athwart  frore  vapours,  deep  below. 
Through  whose   o'ershadowing  woods  I  wandered 
With  Asia,  drinking  life  from  her  loved  eyes  ;  Tonce 
Why  scorns  the  spirit  which  informs  ye  now 
To  commune  with  me  T  me  alone,  who  checked, 
As  one  who  checks  a  fiend-drawn  charioteer. 
The  falsehood  and  the  force  of  him  who  reigns 
Supreme,  and  with  the  groans  of  pining  slaves 
Fills  your  dim  glens  and  liquid  wildernesses: 
Why  answer  ye  not,  still  1   Brethren ! 
16 


THE    EARTH. 


They  dare  not. 


PROMETHEUS. 

Who  dares  ]  for  I  would  hear  that  curse  again. 

Ha  !  what  an  awful  wliisper  rises  up ! 

'Tis  scarce  like  sound:  it  tingles  through  the  frame 

As  lightning  tingles,  hovering  ere  it  strike. 

Speak,  Spirit !  from  thine  inorganic  voice 

I  only  know  that  thou  art  moving  near 

And  love.     How  cursed  I  him  1 

THE     EARTH. 

How  canst  thou  hear, 
W'ho  knowest  not  the  language  of  the  dead  1 

PROMETHEUS. 

Thou  art  a  living  spirit ;  speak  as  they. 

THE    EARTH. 

I  dare  not  speak  like  life,  lest  Heaven's  fell  King 
Should  hear,  and  link  me  to  some  wheel  of  pain 
More  torturing  than  the  one  whereon  I  roll. 
Subtle  thou  art  and  good ;  and  though  the  Gods 
Hear  not  this  voice,  yet  thou  art  more  than  God 
Being  wise  and  kind:  earnestly  hearken  now. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Obscurel}'  through  my  brain,  like  shadows  dim, 
Sweep  awful  thoughts,  rapid  and  thick.     I  feel 
Faint,  like  one  mingled  in  entwining  love; 
Yet  'tis  not  pleasure. 

THE     EARTH. 

No,  thou  canst  not  hear : 
Thou  art  immortal,  and  this  tongue  is  known 
Only  to  those  who  die. 

PROMETHEUS. 

And  what  art  thou, 
0  melancholy  Voice  1 

THE   EARTH. 

I  am  the  Earth, 
Thy  mother  ;  she  within  whose  stony  vcms, 
To  the  last  fibre  of  the  loftiest  tree 
Whose  thin  leaves  trembled  in  the  frozen  air, 
Joy  ran  as  blood  within  a  living  frame. 
When  thou  didst  frosn  her  bosom,  liiie  a  cloud 
Of  glory,  arise,  a  spirit  of  keen  joy  ! 
And  at  thy  voice  her  pining  sons  uplifted 
Their  prostrate  brows  from  the  polluting  dust, 
And  our  almighty  Tyrant  with  fierce  dread 
Grew  pale,  until  his  thunder  chained  thee  here. 
Then,  see  those  million  worlds  which  burn  and  roll 
Around  us :  their  inhabitants  beheld 
My  sphered  light  wane  in  wide  Heaven  ;  the  sea 
Was  hftcd  by  strange  temjjcst,  and  new  fire 
From  earthquake-. iftcd  mountains  of  bright  snow 
Shook  its  portentous  hair  beneath  Heaven's  frown  ; 
Lightning  and  Inundation  vexed  the  plains  ; 
Blue  thistles  bloomed  in  cities  ;  foodless  toads 
Within  voluptuous  chambers  panting  crawled  : 
When  Plague   had  fallen  on  man,  and  beast,  and 

worm, 
And  Famine ;  and  black  blight  on  herb  and  tree  ; 
And  in  the  corn,  and  vines,  and  meadow-grass, 
Teemed  ineradicable  poisonous  weeds 
Draining  their  growth,  for  my  wan  breast  was  dry 


122 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 


With  pripf ;  and  the  thin  air,  my  breath,  was  stained 
With  tlie  contagion  of  a  mother's  liate 
Breathed  on  her  child's  destroyer ;  ay,  I  heard 
Tiiy  curse,  the  which,  if  thou  reniemhcrest  not, 
\  et  my  innumerable  seas  and  streams, 
Mountains,  and  caves,  and  winds,  and  yon  wide  air, 
And  the  inarticulate  people  of  the  dead. 
Preserve,  a  treasured  spell.     We  meditate 
In  secret  joy  and  hope  those  dreadful  words 
But  dare  not  speak  them. 

PnOMETUKUS. 

Venerable  mother ! 
All  else  who  live  and  suflTrr  take  from  thee 
Some  comfort ;  flowers,  and  fruits,  and  happv  sounds, 
And  love,  though  Meeting;  these  may  not  be  mine. 
But  mine  own  words,  I  pray,  deny  me  not. 

THE    EARTH. 

They  shall  be  told.     Ere  Babylon  was  dust, 

The  Magus  Zoroaster,  my  dead  child. 

Met  his  own  image  walking  in  the  garden. 

That  apparition,  sole  of  men,  he  .saw. 

For  know  there  are  two  worlds  of  life  and  death: 

One  that  which  thou  beholdest;  but  the  other 

Is  underneath  the  grave,  where  do  inhabit 

The  shadows  of  all  forms  that  think  and  live 

Till  death  unite  them  and  they  part  no  more ; 

Dreams  and  the  light  imaginings  of  men, 

And  all  that  faith  creates  or  love  desires, 

Terrible,  strange,  subUme  and  beauteous  shapes. 

There  thou  art,  and  dost  hang,  a  writhing  shade, 

'Mid  whirlwind-peopled  mountains  ;  all  the  gods 

Are  there,  and  all  the  powers  of  nameless  worlds, 

Vast,  sceptred  phantoms;  heroes, men,  and  beasts; 

And  Demogorgon,  a  tremendous  gloom  ; 

And  he,  the  supreme  Tyrant,  on  his  throne 

Of  burning  gold.     Son,  one  of  these  shall  utter 

The  curse  which  all  remember.     Call  at  will 

Thine  own  ghost,  or  the  ghost  of  Jupiter, 

Hades  or  Typhon,  or  what  mightier  G6ds 

From  all-prolific  E\il,  since  thy  ruin 

Have  sprung,  and  trampled  on  my  prostrate  sons. 

Ask,  and  they  must  reply :  so  the  revenge 

Of  the  Supreme  may  sweep  through  vacant  shades, 

As  rainy  wind  through  the  abandoned  gate 

Of  a  fallen  palace. 

pnoMETHErs. 
Mother,  let  not  aught 
Of  that  which  may  be  evil,  pass  again 
My  lips,  or  those  of  aught  resembUng  me. 
Phantasm  of  Jupiter,  arise,  appear ! 

lOXE. 

My  wings  are  folded  o'er  mine  cars  : 

My  wings  are  crossed  o'er  mine  eyes: 
Yet  through  their  silver  shade  appears, 

And  through  their  lulling  plumes  arise, 
A  Shaj)e.  a  throng  of  sovinds; 

May  it  be  no  ill  to  thee 
0  thou  of  many  wounds  ! 
Near  whom,  for  our  sweet  sister's  sake, 
Ever  thus  we  watch  and  wake. 

PANTHKA. 

The  sound  is  of  whirlwind  underground. 

Earthquake,  and  fire,  and  mountains  cloven ;    I 


The  shape  is  awful  like  the  sound, 

Clothed  in  dark  jjuqjlc,  star-inwoven. 
A  sceptre  of  j)a!e  gold 

To  stay  steps  jiroud,  o'er  the  slow  cloud 
His  veined  hand  doth  liold. 
Cruel  he  looks,  but  calm  and  strong. 
Like  one  who  does,  not  sutlers  wrong. 

PHANTASM   OF    JUPITKIl. 

Why  have  the  secret  powers  of  this  strange  world 
Driven  me,  a  frail  and  empty  phantom,  hither 
On  direst  storms  1   What  unaccustomed  sounds 
Are  hovering  on  my  lips,  unlike  the  voice 
With  wliich  our  jjallid  race  hold  ghastly  talk 
In  darkjiess  ?  And,  proud  sufiercr,  who  art  thou  ? 

PnOMETHEUS. 

Tremendous  Image  !  as  thou  art  must  be 
He  whom  thou  shadowest  forth.     I  am  his  foe,    . 
The  Titan.     Speak  the  words  which  I  would  hear, 
Although  no  thought  inform  thine  empty  voice. 

THE     EARTH. 

Listen  !  And  though  your  echoes  must  be  mute. 
Gray   mountains,  and    old  woods,  and    haunted 

springs. 
Prophetic  caves,  and  isle-surrounding  streams, 
Rejoice  to  hear  what  yet  ye  cannot  speak. 

PHANTASM. 

A  spirit  seizes  me  and  speaks  within  : 
It  tears  me  as  fire  tears  a  thunder-cloud. 

PAXTHEA. 

See,  how  he  lifts  his  mighty  looks,  the  Heaven 
Darkens  above. 

lOXE. 

He  speaks !  0  shelter  me ! 

PnOMETHEl'S. 

I  see  the  curse  on  gestures  proud  and  cold. 
And  looks  of  firm  defiance,  and  calm  hate. 
And  such  despair  as  mocks  itself  w  ith  smiles. 
Written  as  on  a  scroll :  yet  speak :  Oh,  speak  ! 

PHANTASM. 

Fiend,  I  defy  thee  !  with  a  calm,  fixed  mind. 
All  that  thou  canst  inflict  I  bid  thee  do  ; 

Foul  Tyrant  both  of  Gods  and  Human-kind, 
One  only  being  shall  thou  not  subdue. 

Rain  then  thy  plagues  upon  me  here, 

(Jhastly  disease  and  frenzying  fear  ; 

And  let  alternate  frost  and  fire 

Eat  into  me,  and  be  thine  ire 
Lightning,  and  cutting  hail,  and  legioned  forms 
Of  furies,  driving  by  upon  the  wounding  storms. 

Ay,  do  thy  worst.     Thou  art  omnipotent. 

O'er  all  things  but  thyself  I  gave  thee  power. 
And  my  own  will.     Be  thy  swift  mischiefs  sent 

To  blast  mankind,  from  yon  ethereal  tower. 
Let  thy  malignant  spirit  move 
In  darkness  over  those  I  love; 
On  me  and  mine  I  imprecate 
'J'he  utmost  torture  of  thy  hate; 
.\nd  thus  devote  to  sleepless  agony, 
This  undecUning  head  while  thou  must  reign   on 
high. 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 


123 


But,  tliou  who  art  the  God  and  I.ord  :  O,  thou 
Wlio  lillost  with  thy  soul  this  world  of  wo, 
To  whom  all  thinfrs  of  Earth  and  Heaven  do  bow 

In  fear  and  worship  :  alI-i)rovailing  foe  ! 
I  curse  thcf  !  let  a  sullerer's  curse 
Clasp  thee,  his  torturer,  like  remorse! 
Till  thine  Inthiity  shall  he 
A  robe  of  envenomed  agony  ; 
And  thine  Onmipotence  a  crown  of  pain. 
To  cling  like  burning  gold  round  thy  dissolving 
brain. 

Heap  on  thy  soul,  by  virtue  of  this  curse, 

111  deeds,  then  be    thou  damned,  beholding 
good ; 
Both  inlhiite  as  is  the  universe. 

And  thou,  and  thy  self-torturing  solitude 
An  awful  image  of  calm  power 
Though  now  thou  sittest,  let  the  hour 
Come,  when  thou  must  appear  to  be 
That  which  thou  art  internally. 
And  after  many  a  false  and  fruitless  crime. 
Scorn   track  thy   lagging    fall  through  boundless 
space  and  time. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Were  these  my  words,  0  Parent  1 

THE    EARTH. 

They  were  thine. 

PROMETHEUS. 

It  doth  repent  me  :  words  are  quick  and  vain  ; 
Grief  for  awhile  is  blind,  and  so  was  mine. 
I  wish  no  li^■ing  thing  to  sufler  pain. 

THE    EARTH. 

Misery,  Oh  misery  to  mo. 
That  Jove  at  length ^lould  vanquish  thee, 
Wail,  howl  aloud.  Land  and  Sea, 
The  Earth's  rent  heart  shall  answer  ye. 
Howl,  Spirits  of  the  living  and  the  dead. 
Your  refuge,  your  defence   lies  fallen  and  van- 
quished. 

FIRST    ECHO. 

Lies  fallen  and  vanquished  1 

SECOND    ECHO. 

Fallen  and  vanquished ! 

lONE. 

Fear  not :  'tis  but  some  passing  spasm, 

The  Titan  is  unvanquished  still. 
But  see  where  through  the  azure  chasm 

Of  yon  forked  and  snowy  hill 
i        Trampling  the  slant  winds  on  high 

With  golden-sandalled  feet,  that  glow 
L'nder  plumes  of  purple  dye, 
Like  rose-ensanguined  ivory, 

A  Shape  comes  now. 
Stretching  on  high  from  his  right  hand 
A  serpent  cincture<l  wand. 

PAXTHEA. 

'Tis  Jove's  world-wandering  herald,  Merciiry. 

lOXE. 

And  who  are  those  with  hydra  tresses 
And  iron  wings  that  climb  the  wind, 


Whom  the  frowning  God  represses 

l-ike  vapours  steaming  U|)  bcliind, 
Clanging  loud,  an  endless  crowd — 

I'AXTHEA. 

These  arc  Jove's  tempest-walking  liounds, 
"SA'liom  he  gluts  with  groans  and  blood, 
When  charioted  on  sulphurous  cloud 

He  bursts  from  Heaven's  bounds. 

lOXE. 

Are  they  now  led,  from  the  thin  dead 
On  new  pangs  to  be  fed  1 

PAXTHEA. 

The  Titan  looks  as  ever,  firm,  not  proud. 

FIRST    FURY. 

Ha !   I  scent  life  ! 

SECOND    FURY. 

Let  me  but  look  into  his  eyes ! 

THIRD   FURT. 

The  hope  of  torturing  him  smells  hke  a  heap 
Of  corpses,  to  a  death-bird  after  battle. 

FIRST    FURY. 

Barest  thou  delay,  O  Herald  !  take  cheer.  Hounds 
Of  Hell !  what  if  the  Son  of  Maia  soon 
Should  make  us  food  and  sport — who  can  please  long 
The  Omnipotent] 

mehcury. 
Bark  to  your  towers  of  iron, 
And  gnash  beside  the  streams  of  fire,  and  wail 
Your  foodless  teeth.     Gen,'on,  arise !  and  Gorgon, 
Chimsera,  and  thou  Sphinx,  subtlest  of  fiends. 
Who  ministered  to  Thebes  Heaven's  poisoned  wine, 
Unnatural  love,  and  more  unnatural  hate : 
These  shall  perform  your  task. 

FIRST    FURY. 

Oh,  mercy !  mercy  ! 
We  die  with  our  desire  :  drive  us  not  back ! 

MERCURY. 

Crouch  then  in  silence. 

Awful  Sufferer; 
To  thee  unwilling,  most  unwillingly 
I  come,  by  the  Great  Father's  will  driven  down, 
To  execute  a  doom  of  new  revenge. 
Alas  !  I  pity  thee,  and  hate  myself 
That  I  can  do  no  more ;  aye  from  thy  sight 
Returning,  for  a  season,  heaven  seems  hell, 
So  thy  worn  form  pursues  me  night  and  day. 
Smiling  reproach.     Wise  art  thou,  firm  and  good, 
But  vainly  vvouldst  stand  forth  alone  in  strife 
Against  the  Omnipotent ;  as  yon  clear  lamps 
That  measure  and  divide  the  weary  years 
From  which  there  is  no  refuge,  long  have  taught. 
And  long  must  teach.     Even  now  thy  Torturer 

arms 
With  the  strange  might  of  unimagined  pains 
The  powers  who  scheme  slow  agonies  in  Hell, 
And  my  commission  is  to  lead  them  here. 
Or  what  more  subtle,  foul  or  savage  fiends 
People  the  abyss,  and  leave  them  to  their  task. 
Be  it  not  so !  there  is  a  secret  known 
To  thee,  and  to  none  else  of  Uving  things, 


124 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 


Whic-h  may  transfer  tlio  src]>tre  of  wide  Heaven, 
The  fear  of  whieh  perjiloxes  the  supreme; 
Clothe  it  in  words,  and  hid  it  elasp  his  throne 
In  intercession ;  hend  thy  soul  in  jirayer, 
And  like  a  sujipliant  in  some  ^jorLjeous  fane, 
Let  the  will  kneel  within  thy  haughty  heart: 
For  henclits  and  meek  suhmisaion  tame 
The  fiercest  and  tlie  mightiest. 

PHOMETUKVS. 

Evil  minds 
Chanijc  good  to  tlieir  own  nature.     I  gave  all 
He  has ;  and  in  return  he  chains  me  here 
Years,  ages,  night  and  day ;  wliether  the  Sun 
Split  my  parched  skin,  or  in  the  moony  night 
The  crystal-winged  snow  cling  round  my  hair : 
Whilst  my  heloved  race  is  trampled  down 
By  his  thought-executing  ministers. 
Such  is  the  tyrant's  recompense:  'tis  just: 
He  who  is  evil  can  receive  no  good ; 
And  for  a  world  hestowed.  or  a  friend  lost, 
He  can  feel  hate,  fear,  shame  ;  not  gratitude : 
He  hut  requites  me  for  his  own  misdeed. 
Kindness  to  such  is  keen  reproach,  which  breaks 
Willi  bitter  stings  the  light  sleep  of  Revenge. 
Submission,  thou  dost  know  I  cannot  try ; 
For  wliat  submission  but  that  fatal  word, 
The  death-seal  of  mankind's  captivity, 
Like  the  Sicilian's  hair-suspended  sword. 
Which  trembles  o'er  his  crown,  would  he  accept, 
Or  could  I  yield  ?      Which  yet  I  will  not  yield. 
Let  others  flatter  Crime,  where  it  sits  throned 
In  brief  Omnipotence  ;  secure  are  they  : 
For  Justice,  when  triumphant,  will  weep  down 
Pity,  not  punishment,  on  her  own  wrongs, 
Too  much  avenged  by  those  who  err.     I  wait, 
Enduring  thus,  the  retributive  hour 
Which  since  we  spake  is  even  nearer  now. 
But  hark,  the  hellhounds  clamour.     Fear  delay  ! 
Behold !  Heaven  lowers  under  thy  Father's  frown. 

MEHCCRY. 

Oh,  that  we  might  be  spareil :  I  to  inflict, 
And  thou  to  sufler!  once  more  answer  me: 
Thou  knowest  not  the  period  of  Jove's  power  ! 

PROMETHEUS. 

I  know  but  this,  that  it  must  come. 

MEIlCflir. 

Alas! 
Thou  canst  not  count  thy  years  to  come  of  pain  ! 

PnOMETHEUS. 

They  last  while  Jove  must  reign  ;  nor  more,  nor  less 
Do  I  desire  or  fear. 

MKucrur. 

Yet  pause  and  plunge 
Into  Eternity,  where  recorded  time. 
Even  all  that  we  imagine,  age  on  age. 
Seems  but  a  point,  and  the  reluctant  mind 
Flags,  wearily  in  its  unending  flight 
Till  it  sink,  dizzy,  blind,  lost,  shelterless ; 
Perchance  it  has  not  numbered  the  slow  years 
Which  thou  must  spend  in  torture,  unrepricved  1 

PlIOMETIIEfS. 

Perchance  no  thought  can  count  them,  yet  they  pass. 


MEHcunr. 
If  thou  might'st  dwell  among  the  gods  the  while, 
Lapi>cd  in  voluptuous  joy  1 

rilOMETHErS. 

I  would  not  quit 
This  bleak  ravine,  these  unrepentant  pains. 

MEncrnr. 
Alas  !  I  wonder  at,  yet  pity  thee. 

PHOMETHEUS. 

Pity  the  self-despising  slaves  of  Heaven, 
Not  me,  within  whose  mind  sits  peace  serene. 
As  light  in  the  sun,  throned :  how  vain  is  talk  ! 
Call  up  the  fiends. 

io:sE. 

0,  sister,  look !  White  fire 
Has  cloven  to  the  roots  yon  huge  snow-loaded  cedar ; 
How  fearfully  God's  thunder  howls  behmd ! 

MEHCURT. 

I  must  obey  his  words  and  thine  :  alas ! 
Most  heavily  remorse  hangs  at  my  heart ! 

PAXTHEA. 

See  where  the  child  of  Heaven,  with  winged  feet, 
Runs  down  the  slanted  sunlight  of  the  dawn, 

lOJfE. 

Dear  sister,  close  thy  plumes  over  thine  eyes 
Lest  thou  behold  and  die  :  they  come :  they  come 
Blackening  the  birth  of  day  with  countless  wings, 
And  hollow  underneath,  like  death. 

riHST    FCRY. 

Prometheus ! 
sEcosD  rrnr. 
Immortal  Titan ! 

THIRD    IWRT. 

Champion  of  Heaven's  slaves  ! 

PROMETIIECS. 

He  whom  some  dreadful  voice  invokes,  is  here, 
Prometheus,  the  chained  Titan.     Horrible  forms. 
What  and  who  are  ye  1     Never  yet  there  came 
Phantasms  so  foul  through  monster  teaming  Hell 
From  the  all-miscreative  brain  of  Jove ; 
Whilst  1  behold  such  execrable  shapes, 
Methinks  I  grow  like  what  I  contem|)late. 
And  laugh  and  stare  in  loathsome  sympathy. 

FIRST    FVIir. 

We  are  the  ministers  of  pain  and  fear. 
And  disappointment,  and  mistrust,  and  hate. 
And  clinging  crime  ;  and  as  lean  dogs  pursue 
Through  wood  and  lake  some  struck  and  sobbing 

fawn. 
We  track  all  thincrs  that  weep,  and  bleed,  and  live, 
When  the  great  King  betrays  them  to  our  will. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Oh !  many  fearful  natures  in  one  name, 
I  know  ye  ;  and  these  lakes  and  echoes  know 
The  darkness  and  the  clangour  of  your  wines. 
But  why  more  hideous  than  your  loathed  wives 
Gather  ye  up  in  legions  from  the  deep  ? 

SECOXI)     FURT. 

We  knew  not  that ;  Sisters,  rejoice,  rejoice ! 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 


125 


PIIOMETHEUS. 

Can  aught  exult  in  its  deformity  1 

SECOND  FUHT. 

The  heaiity  of  dehght  makes  lovers  glad, 

(lazing  on  one  another:  so  are  we, 

As  from  the  rose  vvliirh  tlie  pale  priestess  kneels 

To  gather  for  her  festal  erovvn  of  (lowers 

Tlie  aerial  crimson  falls,  tlushing  her  cheek, 

So  from  our  victim's  destined  agony 

The  shade  which  is  our  form  invests  us  round, 

Else  we  are  shapeless  as  our  mother  Night. 

PROMETHEUS. 

I  laugh  your  power,  and  his  who  sent  you  here, 
To  lowest  scorn.     Pour  forth  the  cup  of  pain. 

FIHST  FURY. 

Thou  thinkcst  wc  will  rend  thee  hone  from  bone, 
And  nerve  from  nerve,  working  hke  tire  within  1 

PROMETHEUS. 

Pain  is  my  element,  as  hate  is  thine ; 
Ye  rend  me  now ;  I  care  not. 

SECOND   FURY. 

Dost  imagine 
We  will  but  laugh  into  thy  lidless  eyes  ] 

PROMETHEUS. 

I  weigh  not  what  ye  do,  hut  what  ye  suffer, 
Being  evil.     Cruel  was  the  power  which  called 
You,  or  aught  else  so  wretched,  into  hght. 

THIRD   FURY. 

Thou  think'st  we  will  live  through  thee,  one  by  one, 
Ijike  animal  life,  and  though  we  can  obscure  ncrt 
The  soul  which  burns  within,  that  we  will  dwell 
Beside  it,  like  a  vain  loud  multitude 
Vexing  the  self-content  of  wisest  men  : 
That  we  will  be  dread  thought  beneath  thy  brain, 
And  foul  desire  round  thine  astonished  heart, 
And  lilood  within  thy  labyrinthine  veins 
Crawhng  like  agony. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Why,  ye  are  thus  now ; 
Yet  am  I  king  over  myself,  and  rule 
The  torturing  and  conflicting  throngs  within, 
As  Jove  rules  you  when  Hell  grows  mutinous. 

CHORUS  OF   FURIES. 

From  the  ends  of  the  earth,  from  the  ends  of  the 

earth. 
Where   the  night  has  its  grave  and   the  morning 
its  birth, 

Come,  come,  come ! 
Oh,  ye  who  shake  hills  with  the  scream  of  your  mirth, 
When  cities  sink  howling  in  ruin;  and  ye 
Who  with  wingless  footsteps  trample  the  sea, 
And  close  upon  Shipwreck  and  Famine's  track, 
Sit  chattering  with  joy  on  the  foodless  wreck ; 
Come,  come,  come ! 
Leave  the  bed,  low,  cold,  and  red, 
Strewed  beneath  a  nation  dead ; 
Leave  the  hatred,  as  in  ashes 

Fire  is  left  for  future  burning : 
It  will  burst  in  bloodier  flashes 
When  ye  stir  it,  soon  returning : 


Leave  the  self-contempt  implanted 
In  young  spirits,  sense  enchanted, 

Misery's  yet  unkindled  fuel : 
Leave  Hell's  secrets  half  michanted 

To  the  maniac  dreamer :  cruel 
Mor6  than  ye  can  bp  with  hate 

Is  he  with  fear. 

Come,  come,  come ! 
We  are  steaming  up  from  Hell's  wide  gate. 
And  we  burden  the  blasts  of  the  atmosphere. 
But  vainly  wc  toil  till  ye  come  here. 


Sister,  I  hear  the  thunder  of  new  wings. 

PANTHEA. 

These  solid  mountains  quiver  with  the  sound 
Even  as  the  tremulous  air:  their  shadows  make 
The  space  withiji  my  plumes  more  black  than  night. 

FIRST  FURY. 

Your  call  was  as  a  winged  car, 
Driven  on  whirlwinds  fast  and  far ; 
It  rapt  us  from  red  gulfs  of  war. 

SECOND    FURY. 

From  wide  cities,  famine-wasted ; 

THIRD    FURY. 

Groans  half  heard,  and  blood  untasted : 

FOURTH    FURY. 

Kingly  conclaves,  stern  and  cold. 

Where  blood  with  gold  is  bought  and  sold ; 

FIFTH    FURY. 

From  the  furnace,  white  and  hot, 
In  which — 


Speak  not ;  whisper  not : 
I  know  all  that  ye  would  tell. 
But  to  speak  might  break  the  spell 
Which  must  bend  the  Invincible, 

The  stern  of  thought; 
He  yet  defies  the  deepest  power  of  Hell. 


Tear  the  veil ! 

ANOTHER    FURY. 

It  is  torn. 

CHORUS. 

The  pale  stars  of  the  morn 
Shine  on  a  misery,  dire  to  be  borne. 
Dost  thou  faint,  mighty  Titan !     Wc  laugh  thee 

to  scorn. 
Dost  thou  boast  the  clear  knowledge  thou  waken'dst 

for  man ! 
Then  was  kindled  within  him  a  thirst  which  outran 
Those  perishing  waters ;  a  thirst  of  fierce  fever, 
Hope,  love,  doubt,  desire,  which  consume  him  for 
ever. 
'One  came  forth  of  gentle  worth. 
Smiling  on  the  sanguine  earth : 
l2 


126 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 


His  words  outlived  him,  like  swift  poison 

W'ithi'rinij  up  truth,  pcaro,  and  pitj*. 
Look  !  wluTi*  rOun<l  tho  wide  horizou 

Many  a  niiliionod  ])('oi)lod  city 
Voniits  snjoke  in  the  l)ri<;lit  air. 
Miuk  that  outcry  of  despair!. 
'Tis  liis  niilil  and  jrenlle  pliost 

W'nilin.T  for  the  faith  he  kindled: 
Look  ayjjn  !   the  flames  almost 

To  a  glowworm's  lamp  have  dwindled: 
The  survivors  round  the  embers 

Gather  in  dread. 

Joy-  Jo.V'  joy ' 
Past  afjes  crowd  on  thee,  hut  each  one  remembers; 
And  the  future  is  d;u-k,  and  the  present  is  spread 
Like  a  pillow  of  thorns  for  thy  slumberless  head. 

SKMICUORUS    I, 

Drops  of  bloody  agony  flow 
From  his  white  and  quivering  brow 
Grant  a  litlle  res])ite  now  : 
Sec  a  disenchanted  nation 
•  Springs  like  day  from  desolation; 
To  truth  its  state  is  dedicate, 
And  Freedom  leads  it  forth,  her  mate ; 
A  legioned  band  of  linked  brothers, 
\A'hom  Love  calls  children — 

SEMICHORUS    ir. 

'Tis  another's 
See  how  kindred  murder  kin ! 
'Tis  the  vintage  lime  for  death  and  sin. 
Blood,  like  new  wine,  bubbles  witliin : 
Till  Despair  smothers 
The  strugghng  worUl,  which  slaves  and  tyrants  win. 
[jJii  the  Furies  vanish,  except  one. 

lONE. 

Hark,  sister !  what  a  low  yet  dreadful  groan 
Quite  unsuppressed  is  tearing  up  the  heart 
Of  the  good  Titan,  as  storms  tear  the  deep, 
And  beasts  hear  the  sea  moan  in  inland  caves. 
Darest  thou  observe  how  the  fiends  torture   him  1 

PAXTIIF.A. 

Alas !  I  looked  forth  twice,  but  will  no  more. 


What  didst  thou  sec  1 


PANTIIKA. 


A  woful  siu^ht :  a  youth 
With  patient  looks  nailed  to  a  crucilix. 


What  next  1 


The  heaven  around,  the  earth  below 
Was  peopled  with  thick  shajies  of  human  death 
All  horrible,  and  wrought  by  human  hands. 
And  some  appeared  the  work  of  human  hearts. 
For  men  were  slowly  killcil  by  frowns  and  smiles: 
And  other  slights  too  foul  to  sjicak  and  live 
Were  wandering  by.  Let  us  not  tem])t  worse  fear 
By  looking  forth :  those  groans  are  grief  enough. 


ruHT. 

Behold  an  emblem :  those  who  do  endure 

Deep  wrongs  for  man,  and  scorn,  and  chains,  but 

heaji 
Thousandtbld  torment  on  themselves  and  him. 

I'HOMKTHF.rS. 

Remit  the  anguish  of  that  lighted  stare, 

Close  those  wan  lips:  let  that  thorn-woiuuled  brow 

Stream  not  with  blood;  it  mingles  with  thy  tears! 

Fix,  fix  those  tortured  orbs  in  j)eace  and  death, 

So  thy  sick  throes  shake  not  that  crucifix, 

So  those  ]>ale  fingers  j)lay  not  with  tby  gore. 

O,  horrible  !  Thy  name  I  will  not  sj)eak, 

It  hath  become  a  curse.     I  see,  I  sec 

The  wise,  the  mild,  the  lofty,  and  the  just. 

Whom  th}'  slaves  hate  for  being  like  to  thee. 

Some  hunted  by  foul  lies  from  their  heart's  home, 

An  early-chosen,  late-lamented  hojiie. 

As  hoo<led  ounces  cling  to  the  driven  hind ; 

Some  linked  to  corijses  in  unwholesome  cells : 

Some — Hear  I  not  the  nmllitude  laugh  loud? — 

Impaled  in  lingering  fire:  and  mighty  realms 

Float  by  my  feet,  like  sea-uprooted  isles. 

Whose  sons  are  kneaded  down  in  common  blood 

By  the  red  light  of  their  own  burning  homes. 

FVRT. 

Blood  thou  canst  see.  and  fire ;  and  canst  hear  croans : 
Worse  things  unheard,  unseen,  remain  behind. 


PROMKTHEUS. 


Worse  1 


In  each  human  heart  terror  survives 
The  ra\in  it  has  gorged  :  the  loftiest  fear 
All  that  they  would  disdain  to  think  were  true: 
Hypocrisy  and  custom  make  their  minds 
The  fanes  of  many  a  worship,  now  outworn. 
They  dare  not  devise  good  for  man's  estate. 
And  yet  they  know  not  that  they  do  not  dure. 
The  gootl  want  power,  but  to  weep  barren  tears. 
'The  powerful  goodness  want :  worse  need  for  them. 
The  wise  want  love  ;  and  those  who  love  want  wis- 
And  all  best  things  are  thus  confused  to  ill.  [dom; 
Many  are  strong  and  rich,  and  would  be  just. 
But  live  among  their  suffering  fellow-men 
As  if  none  felt :  they  know  not  what  they  do. 

I'HOMETUEUS. 

Thy  words  are  like  a  cloud  of  winged  snakes ; 
And  yet  I  pity  those  they  torture  not 


Thou  pitiest  them  ]  I  speak  no  more  !   [  Vanishes. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Ah  wo ! 
Ah  wo !  Alas  !  pain,  pain  ever,  for  ever ! 
I  close  my  tearli'ss  eyes,  but  see  more  clear 
Thy  works  within  my  wo-ilhimined  mind, 
Thou  subtle  tyrant!      IVace  is  in  the  grave. 
The  grave  hides  all  thinas  beautiful  and  good: 
I  am  a  Ciod  and  cannot  find  it  there. 
Nor  would  I  seek  it :  for,  though  dread  revenge, 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND. 


127 


This  is  (lofcat,  fierce  kincc !  not  victory. 

The  sit^iit.s  with  which  thou  torturest  frird  my  soul 

With  iieweiiduraTice,  till  the  hour  arrives 

When  they  shall  he  no  types  of  things  which  are. 

PANTHEA. 

Alas  !  what  sawest  thou  1 

rnoMETaEUS. 

There  are  two  woes; 
To  speak  and  to  behold  ;  thou  spare  me  one. 
Names  are  tliere.  Nature's  sacred  watchwords,  they, 
Were  borne  aloft  in  bright  emblazonry  ; 
The  nations  throng  around,  and  cry  aloud, 
As  with  one  voice.  Truth,  liberty,  and  love ! 
Suddenly  fierce  confusion  fell  from  heaven 
Among  them :  there  was  strife,  deceit,  and  fear : 
Tyrants  rushed  in,  and  did  divide  the  spoil. 
Tills  was  the  shadow  of  the  truth  I  saw. 

THE    EAKTH. 

I  felt  thy  torture,  son,  with  such  mixed  joy 
As  pain  and  virtue  give.     To  cheer  thy  state 
I  bid  ascend  those  subtle  and  fair  spirits, 
Whose  homes  are  the  dim  caves  of  human  thought, 
And  who  inhabit,  as  birds  wing  the  wind, 
Its  world  surrounding  ether :  they  behold 
Beyond  that  twilight  realm,  as  in  a  glass, 
The  future  :  may  they  speak  comfort  to  thee  ! 

PAXTHEA. 

Look,  sister,  where  a  troop  of  spirits  gather. 
Like  flocks  of  clouds  in  spring's  delightful  weather, 
Thronging  in  the  blue  air ! 


And  see  !  more  come, 
Like  fountain-vapours  when  the  winds  are  dumb, 
That  climb  up  the  ravine  in  scattered  lines. 
And  hark  !   is  it  the  music  of  the  pines  1 
Is  it  the  lake  1     Is  it  the  waterfall  t 

PAXTHEA. 

'Tis  something  sadder,  sweeter  far  than  all. 

CHORrs    OF    SPIRITS. 

From  unremembered  ages  we 
Gentle  guides  arid  guardians  be 
Of  heaven-oppressed  mortality ! 
And  we  breathe  and  sicken  not. 
The  atmosphere  of  human  thought : 
Be  it  dim,  and  dank,  and  gray, 
Like  a  storm-extinguished  day,. 
Travelled  o'er  by  dying  gleams: 

Be  it  bright  as  all  between 
Cloudless  skies  and  windless  streams, 

Silent,  liquid,  and  serene  ; 
As  the  birds  within  the  wind, 

As  the  fish  within  the  wave. 
As  the  thoughts  of  man's  own  mind 

Float  through  all  above  the  grave : 
We  make  there  our  liquid  lair. 
Voyaging  cloudlike  and  unpent 
Through  the  boundless  element : 
Thence  w-e  bear  the  prophecy 
Which  begins  and  ends  in  thee  ! 


More  yet  come,  one  by  one  ;  the  air  around  them 
Looks  radiant  as  tlio  air  around  a  star. 

FIRST     SPIRIT. 

On  a  battle-trumpet' .s  blast 
I  fled  hither,  fast,  fast,  fast, 
'Mid  the  darkness  u[)ward  cast. 
From  the  dust  of  creeds  outworn, 
From  the  tyrant's  banner  torn, 
Gathering  round  me,  onward  borne. 
There  was  mingled  many  a  cry — 
Freedom  !  Hope  !   Death  !  Victory  ! 
Till  they  faded  through  the  sky ; 
And  one  sound  above,  around. 
One  sound  beneath,  around,  above. 
Was  moving ;  'twas  the  soul  of  love ; 
'Twas  the  hope,  the  prophecy, 
Which  begins  and  ends  in  thee. 

SECOXD    SPIRIT. 

A  rainbow's  arch  stood  on  the  sea. 
Which  rocked  beneath,  immovably  ; 
And  the  triumphant  storm  did  flee, 
Like  a  conqueror-,  swift  and  proud. 
Between  with  many  a  captive  cloud 
A  shapeless,  dark  and  rapid  crowd, 
Each  by  lightning  riven  in  half: 
I  heard  the  thunder  hoarsely  laugh : 
Mighty  fleets  were  strewn  like  chafT 
And  spread  beneath  a  hell  of  death 
O'er  the  white  waters.     I  alit 
On  a  great  ship  Ughtning-split, 
And  speeded  hither  on  the  sigh 
Of  one  who  gave  an  enemy 
His  plank,  then  plunged  aside  to  die. 

THIRD     SPIRIT. 

I  sate  beside  a  sage's  bed. 

And  the  lamp  was  burning  red 

Near  the  brook  where  he  had  fed. 

When  a  Dream  with  plumes  of  flame, 

To  his  pillow  hovering  came, 

And  I  knew  it  was  the  same 

Which  had  kindled  long  ago 

Pity,  eloquence,  and  wo  ; 

And  the  world  awhile  below 

W^ore  the  shade  its  lustre  made. 

It  has  borne  me  here  as  fleet 

As  Desire's  lia:htning  feet  : 

I  must  ride  it  back  ere  morrow. 

Or  the  sage  will  wake  in  sorrow. 

FOURTH     SPIRIT. 

On  a  poet's  lips  I  slept 

Dreaming  like  a  love-adept 

In  the  sound  his  breathing  kept ; 

Nor  seeks  norJinds  he  mortal  blisses, 

But  feeds  on  the  aerial  kisses 

Of  shapes  that  haunt  thought's  wildernesses. 

He  will  w-atch  from  dawn  to  gloom 

The  lake-reflected  sun  illume 

The  yellow  bees  in  the  ivy-bloom, 

Nor  heed  nor  see,  w  hat  things  they  be ; 

But  firoin  these  create  he  can 


128 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 


Forms  more  rcnl  than  living  man, 
Nurslings  of  immortality  ! 
One  of  these  awakened  ine, 
And  I  sped  to  succour  thee. 

lOXK. 

Behold'st  thou  not  two  shapes  from  the  eastand  west 

Come  as  two  doves  to  one  beloved  nest, 

Twin  nurslings  of  the  all-sustuiiiiuK  air 

On  swift  still  wings  glide  down  the  atmosphere  1 

And,  hark  !  their  sweet  sad  voices !  'tis  despair 

Mingled  with  love  and  then  dissolved  in  sound. 

Canst  thou  speak,  sister  1  all  my  words  arc  drowned. 

lONE. 

Their  beauty  gives  mc  voice.  ,  See  how  they  float 
On  their  sustaining  wings  of  skiey  grain, 
Orange  and  azure  deepening  into  gold  : 
Their  soft  smiles  light  the  air  like  a  star's  fire. 

CHOBUS    OF    SPiniTS. 

Hast  thou  beheld  the  form  of  Love  ? 

FIFTH    SPIRIT 

As  over  wide  dominions 

I  sped,  Uke  some  swift  cloud  that  wings  the  wide 
air's  wildernesses. 

That  planet-crested  shape  swept  by  on  lightning- 
braided  pinions, 

Scattering  the  hquid  joy  of  life  from  his  ambrosial 
tresses : 

His  footsteps  paved  the  world  with  light ;  but  as  I 
past  'twas  fading. 

And  hollow  Ruin  yawned  behind:  great  sages 
bound  in  madness. 

And  headless  patriots,  and  pale  youths  who  pe- 
rished, unupbraiding, 

Gleamed  in  the  night  I  wandered  o'er,  till  thou, 
O  King  of  sadness. 

Turned  by  thy  smile  the  worst  I  saw  to  recollected 
gladness. 

SIXTH    SPIIIIT. 

Ah,  sister !  Desolation  is  a  delicate  thing : 

It  walks  not  on  the  earth,  it  floats  not  on  the  air. 

But  treads  with  silent  footstep,  and  fans  with  silent 

wing 
The  tender  hopes  which  in  their  hearts  the  best 

and  gentlest  bear ; 
Who,   soothed    to    false   repose    by   the    fanning 

plumes  above, 
And  the  music-stirring  motion  of  its  soft  and  busy 

feet, 
Dream  visions  of  aerial  joy,  and  call  the  monster, 

Love, 
And  wake,  and  find  the  shadow  Pain,  as  he  whom 
now  we  greet. 

cHonrs. 
Though  Ruin  now  Love's  shadow  be, 
Following  him,  destroyingly. 

On  death's  white  and  winged  steed, 
Wliich  tlio  fleetest  cannot  floe. 

Trampling  down  both  flower  and  weed, 


Man  and  beast,  and  foul  and  fair. 
Like  a  tempest  through  the  air ; 
Thou  siialt  quell  this  horseman  grim, 
Woundless  though  in  heart  or  limb. 

PIIO.MKTHEI-S. 

Spirits  !  how  know  ye  this  shall  be  ? 
cuonrs. 

In  the  atmosphere  wc  breathe. 
As  buds  grow  red  when  the  snow-storms  flee, 

From  s])ring  gathering  up  beneath, 
Whose  mild  winds  shake  the  elder-brake, 
And  the  wandering  herdsmen  know 
That  the  whitethorn  soon  will  blow : 
Wisdom,  Justice,  Love,  and  Peace, 
When  they  struggle  to  increase, 
Are  to  us  as  soft  winds  be 
To  shepherd  boys,  the  prophecy 
Which  begins  and  ends  in  thee. 

lOXE. 

Where  are  the  Spirits  fled  1 

PA>-TUEA. 

Only  a  sense 
Remains  of  them,  like  the  omnipotence 
Of  music,  when  the  inspired  voice  and  lute 
Languish,  ere  yet  the  responses  are  mute, 
Which  through  the  deep  and  labjTinthine  soul 
Like  echoes  through  long  caverns,  wind  and  roll. 

pnOMETHEVS. 

How  fair  these  air-bom  shapes !  and  yet  I  feci 
Most  vain  all  hope  but  love ;  and  thou  art  far, 
Asia  !  who,  when  my  being  overflowed, 
Wert  like  a  golden  chalice  to  bright  wine 
Which  else  had  sunk  into  the  thirsty  dust 
All  things  arc  still :  alas  !  how  heavily 
This  qiiiet  morning  weighs  upon  my  heart; 
Though  I  should  dream  I. could  even  sleep  with 

grief. 
If  slumber  were  denied  not.     I  would  fain 
Be  what  it  is  my  destiny  to  be, 
The  saviour  and  the  strength  of  sufl!ering  man. 
Or  sink  into  the  original  gulf  of  things : 
There  is  no  agony,  and  no  solace  left ; 
Earth  can  console,  Heaven  can  torment  no  more. 

PANTHEA. 

Hast  thou  forgotten  one  who  watches  thcc 
The  cold  dark  ni'jht,  and  never  sleeps  but  when 
The  shadow  of  thy  sjjirit  falls  on  her  1 

pnOMETHKUS. 

I  said  all  hope  was  vain  but  love  :  thou  lovest 

PANTHEA. 

Deeply  in  truth ;  but  the  eastern  star  looks  white. 
And  Asia  waits  in  that  far  Indian  vale 
The  scene  of  her  sad  exile  ;  rugged  once 
And  desolate  and  frozen,  like  this  ravine; 
But  now  invested  with  fair  flowers  and  herbs, 
And  haunted  by  sweet  airs  and  sounds,  which  flow 
Among  the  woods  and  waters,  from  the  ether 
Of  her  transforming  presence,  which  would  (ade 
If  it  were  mingled  not  with  thine.     Farewell ! 


EJfD    OF    THE    FIRST    ACT. 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 


129 


ACT  IL 


SCENE  I. 

JMurnlng.     A  lonely  Vale  in  the  Indian  Caucasus. 
Asia,  alone. 
Asia. 
From  all  the  Masts  of  heaven  tliou  hast  dcscemleJ: 
Yes,  like  a  spirit,  Ukc  a  thought,  which  makes 
Unwonted  tears  throng  to  the  horny  eyes, 
And  beatings  haunt  the  desolate  heart,     [scended 
^V'hieh  should  have  learnt  repose :  tliou  hast  de- 
Cradled  in  tempests;  thou  dost  wake,  O  Spring! 
O  rhild  of  many  winds  !     As  suddenly 
Thoii  eomcst  as  the  memory  of  a  dream, 
Which  now  is  sad  because  it  hath  been  sweet; 
Like  genius,  or  like  joy  which  riscth  up 
As  from  the  earth,  clothing  with  golden  clouds 
The  desert  of  our  life. 
This  is  the  season,  this  the  day,  the  hour ; 
At  sunrise  thou  shouldst  come,  sweet  sister  mine. 
Too  long  desired,  too  long  delaying,  come ! 
How    like    death-worms   the    wingless    moments 

crawl ! 
The  point  of  one  white  star  is  quivering  still 
Deep  in  the  orange  light  of  widening  morn 
Beyond  the  purple  mountains :  through  a  chasm 
Of  wind-divided  mist  the  darker  lake 
Reflects  it ;  now  it  wanes :  it  gleams  again 
As  the  waves  fade,  and  as  the  burning  threads 
Of  woven  cloud  unravel  in  pale  air : 
'Tis  lost !  and  through  yon  peaks  of  cloud-like  snow 
The  roseate  sunlight  quivers :  hear  I  not 
The  ^-EoUan  music  of  her  sea-green  plumes 
Winnowing  the  crimson  dawn  ? 


jji 


PANTHEA  enters. 

I  feel,  I  see 
Those  eyes  which  burn  through  smiles  that  fade 

in  tears, 
Like  stars  half-quenched  in  mists  of  silver  dew. 
Beloved  and  most  beautiful,  who  wearest 
The  shadow  of  that  soul  by  which  I  live. 
How  late  thou  art !  the  sphered  sun  had  climbed 
The  sea ;  my  heart  was  sick  with  hope,  before 
The  printless  air  felt  thy. belated  plumes. 


PAJfTHEA. 

Pardon,  great  Sister !  but  my  wings  were  faint 
With  the  delight  of  a  remembered  dream. 
As  are  the  noontide  plumes  of  summer  winds 
Satiate  with  sweet  flowers.     I  was  wont  to  sleep 
Peacefully,  and  awake  refreshed  and  calm 
Before  the  sacred  Titan's  flill,  and  thy 
Unhappy  love,  had  made,  through  use  and  pity, 
Both  love  and  wo  familiar  to  my  heart 
As  they  had  grown  to  thine :  erewhilc  I  slept 
Under  the  glaucous  caverns  of  old  Ocean 
Within  dim  bowers  of  green  and  purple  moss, 
Our  young  lone's  soft  and  milky  arms 
Locked  then,  as  now,  behind  my  dark,  moist  hair. 
While  my  shut  eyes  and  cheek  were  pressed  within 
The  folded  depth  of  her  life-breathing  bosom: 
But  not  as  now,  since  I  am  made  the  wind 
AMiich  fails  beneath  the  music  that  I  bear 
17 


Of  thy  most  worldlcss  converse  ;  since  dissolved 
Into  the  sense  wilh  which  love  talks,  my  rest 
Was  troubled  and  yet  sweet;  my  waking  hours 
Too  full  of  care  and  j)ain. 

ASIA. 

Lift  up  tliinc  eyes. 
And  let  me  read  thy  dream. 

PAJfTHEA. 

As  I  have  said, 
With  our  sea-sister  at  his  feet  I  sle];t. 
'I'he  mountain  mists,  condensing  at  our  voice 
J>  Under  the  moon,  had  spread  their  snowy  flakes 
Aj  jjjrom  the  keeii  ice  shielding  our  linked  sleep, 
VVJk  Phen  two  dreams  came.     One,  I  remember  not. 
But  in  the  other  his  pale  wound-worn  limbs 
Fell  from  Prometheus,  and  the  azure  night 
Grew  radiant  with  the  glory  of  that  form 
Which  lives  unchanged  within,  and  his  voice  fell 
liike  music  which  nrakcs  giddy  the  dim  brain, 
Faint  with  intoxication  of  keen  joy  : 
"  Sister  of  her  whose  footsteps  pave  the  world 
With  loveliness — more  fair  than  aught  but  her. 
Whose  shadow  thou  art — lift  thine  eyes  on  me." 
I  lifted  them  :  the  overpowering  light 
Of  that  immortal  shape  was  shadowed  o'er 
By  love ;  which,  from  his  soft  and  flowing  limbs, 
And  passion-parted  lips,  and  keen,  faint  eyes. 
Steamed  forth  like  vaporous  fire ;  an  atmosphere 
Which  wrapped  me  in  its  all-dissolving  power, 
As  the  warm  ether  of  the  morning  sun 
Wraps  ere  it  drinks  some  cloud  of  wandering  dew. 
I  saw  not,  heard  not,  moved  not,  only  felt 
His  presence  flow  and  mingle  through  my  blood 
Till  it  became  his  life,  and  liis  grew  mine. 
And  I  was  thus  absorbed,  until  it  passed. 
And  like  the  vapours  when  the  smr  sinks  down, 
Gathering  again  in  drops  upon  the  pines. 
And  tremulous  as  they,  in  the  deep  night 
My  being  was  condensed ;  and  as  the  rays 
Of  thought  were  slowly  gathered,  I  could  hear 
His  voice,  whose  accents  lingered  ere  they  died 
Like  footsteps  of  weak  melody  t  thy  name 
Among  the  many  sounds  alone  I  heard 
Of  what  might  be  articulate ;  though  still 
I  listened  through  the  night  when  sound  was  none, 
lone  wakened  then,  and  said  to  me : 
"Canst  thou  divine  what  troubles  me  to-nightT 
I  alv.'ays  knew  what  I  desired  before. 
Nor  ever  found  delight  to  wish  in  vain. 
But  now  I  cannot  tell  thee  what  I  seek; 
I  know  not;  something  sweet,  since  it  is  sweet 
Even  to  desire;  it  is  thy  sport,  false  sister; 
Thou  hast  discovered  some  enchantment  old, 
Whose  spells  have  stolen  my  spirit  as  I  slept 
And  mingled  it  with  thine:  for  when  just  now 
We  kissed,  I  felt  witliin  thy  parted  lips 
The  sweet  air  that  sustained  me,  and  the  warmth 
Of  the  life-blood,  for  loss  of  which  I  faint. 
Quivered  between  our  intertwining  arms." 
I  answered  not,  for  the  Eastern  star  grew  pale, 
But  fled  to  thee. 


130 


PROMETHEVS    UNBOUND. 


ASIA. 

Thou  R])eakpst,  liut  thy  worJs 
Arc  as  the  air:  I  feci  thciii  iint:   Oli,  lift 
'I'liinc  eyes,  tiiut  I  may  read  his  written  soul ! 

PAXTHKA. 

I  lift  them,  thmi^h  tliev  ilroop  henenth  the  hiad 
Of  that  they  would  exjiress:  what  eanst  thou  sec 
But  thine  own  fairest  shadow  imaged  there? 

ASIA. 

Tliine  eyes  are  like  the  deep,  hluo,  houndlcss  heaven 
Contrarteii  to  two  circles  uiulcriicath 
Their  Ion?,  fine  lashes;  dark,  far,  measureless, 
Orb  within  orb,  and  line  tlirough  line  inwoven. 

PAXTHEA. 

Why  lookest  thou  as  if  a  spirit  passed? 

ASIA. 

There  is  a  change ;  beyond  tlieir  inmost  depth 

I  see  a  shade,  a  shape :  'tis  He,  arrayed 

In  the  soft  light  of  his  own  smiles,  which  spread 

Like  radiance  from  the  cloud-surrounded  mom. 

Prometheus,  it  is  tliine  !  dep;!,rt  not  yet! 

Say  not  those  smiles  that  we  sliall  meet  again 

A'i'ilh'm  that  bright  pavilion  which  tlieir  beams 

Shall  build  on  the  waste  word?  The  dream  is  told. 

\^'hat  shape  is  that  between  us  ]   Its  rude  hair 

Rougliens  the  wind  that  lifts  it,  its  regard 

Is  wild  and  quick,  yet  'lis  a  thing  of  air 

For  through  its  gray  robe  gleams  the  golden  dew 

Whose  stars  the  noon  has  quenched  not. 

DIIEAM. 

Follow!  Follow! 

PAN'THEA. 

It  is  mine  other  dream. 


It  disappears. 

PAN'THEA. 

It  passes  now  into  my  mind.     Methought 
As  we  sate  here,  the  flower-infolding  buds 
Burst  on  yon  lightning-blasted  almond  tree, 
When  swift  from  the  white  Scythian  wilderness 
A  wind  swept  forth  wrinkling  the  Earth  with  frost: 
I  looked,  and  all  the  blossoms  were  blown  dow^n  ; 
But  on  (>ach  leaf  was  stamped,  as  the  blue  bells 
Of  Hyacinth  tell  Apollo's  written  grief, 

0,  FOLLOW,  FOLLOW  ! 

ASIA. 

As  you  speak,  your  words 
Fill,  pause  hy  pause,  my  own  forgotten  sleep 
With  shapes.  Sicthought  among  the  lawns  together 
We  wandered,  underneath  the  young  gray  dawn. 
And  multitudes  of  dense  white  fleecy  clouds 
Were  wandering  in  ttiick  flocks  along  the  mountains 
Shepherded  by  the  slow,  unwilling  wind; 
And  the  white  dew  on  the  new-bladed  grass, 
Just  piercing  the  dark  earth,  hung  silently ; 
And  there  was  more  which  I  remember  not : 
But  on  the  shadows  of  the  morning  clouds. 
Athwart  the  purple  mountain  slope,  was  written 
Follow,  O,  Follow!   As  they  vanished  by, 
And  on  each  herb,  from  which  Heaven's  dew  had 
fallen,        * 


Tlie  like  was  stamped,  as  with  a  withering  fire, 
A  wind  arose  among  the  pines;  it  shook 
'Ilie  clinging  music  from  their  boughs,  and  then 
Low.  sweet,  faint  sounds,  like  the  farewell  of  ghosts, 
^^'ere  heard  ;  On,  fdllow,  follow,  follow  me! 
And  then  I  said,  "Panthea,  look  on  nie." 
But  in  the  depth  of  those  beloved  eyes 
Still  I  saw,  FOLLOW,  follow! 

F.eHo. 

Follow,  follow ! 

PANTHEA. 

The  crags,  this  clear  spring  morning,  mock  our 
As  they  were  spirifc-tongued.  [voices, 

ASIA. 

It  is  some  being 
Around  the  crags.  What  fine  clear  sounds  !  O,  list! 

ECHOES  (unseen.) 
Echoes  we  :  listen  ! 
We  cannot  stay : 
As  dew-stars  glisten 
Then  fade  away — 
Child  of  Ocean! 

ASIA. 

Hark  !  Spirits,  speak.     The  liquid  responses 
Of  their  aerial  tongues  yet  sound. 


PANTHEA. 


I  hear. 


ECHOES. 

O  follow,  follow. 

As  our  voice  rccedeth 
Through  the  caverns  hollow, 

Where  the  forest  spreadcth; 

(More  distant.) 

O  follow,  follow  ! 

Through  the  caverns  hollow, 
As  tlie  song  floats  thou  pursue. 
Where  the  wild  bee  never  flew. 
Through  the  noontide  darkness  deep. 
By  the  odour-lireathing  sleep 
Of  faint  night-flowers,  and  the  waves 
At  the  fountain-lighted  caves. 
While  our  music,  wild  and  sweet. 
Mocks  thy  gently  falling  feet. 
Child  of  Ocean ! 

ASIA. 

Shall  we  pursue  the  sound  1    It  grows  more  faint 
And  distant. 

PANTHEA. 

List !  the  strain  floats  nearer  now. 

ECHOES. 

In  the  world  unknov^^l 
Sleeps  a  voice  unspoken; 
By  thy  step  alone 
Can  its  rest  be  broken ; 
Child  of  Ocean  l 

ASIA. 

How  the  notes  sink  upon  the  ebbing  wind  ! 

ECHOES. 

O  follow,  follow ! 

Through  the  caverns  hollow. 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 


131 


As  the  song  floats  thou  pursue, 
By  tlic  woodland  noontide  dew ; 
Bv  the  forests,  lakes,  and  fountains. 
Through  the  many-folded  mountains  ; 
To  the  rents,  and  gulfs,  and  ehasms, 
Where  the  earth  reposed  from  spasms, 
On  the  day  when  He  and  thou 
Parted,  to  commingle  now; 
Child  of  Ocean ! 


Come,  sweet  Panthea.  link  thy  hand  in  mine, 
And  follow,  ere  the  voices  fade  away. 


SCENE  n. 

A  Forest,  intcrmin^laJ  with  Rocks  and  Caverns.  Asia 
and  Panthea  pass  into  it.  Two  young  Fauns  are  sit- 
ting on  a  Rock,  listening. 

SEMICHORTS   I.  OF   SPIRITS. 

The  path  through  which  that  lovely  twain 
Have  past,  hy  cedar,  pine,  and  yew, 
And  each  dark  tree  that  ever  grew. 
Is  curtained  out  from  Heaven's  wide  blue ; 

Nor  sun,  nor  moon,  nor  wind,  nor  rain. 
Can  pierce  its  intei-woven  bowers. 
Nor  aught,  save  where  some  cloud  of  dew, 

Drifted  along  the  earth-creeping  breeze. 
Between  the  trunks  of  the  hoar  trees, 

Hangs  each  a  pearl  in  the  pale  flowers 
Of  the  green  laurel,  blown  anew  ; 

And  bends,  and  then  fades  silently. 

One  frail  and  fair  anemone : 

Or  when  some  star  of  many  a  one 

Thqt  climbs  and  wanders  through  steep  night, 

Has  found  the  cleft  through  which  alone 

Beams  fall  from  high  those  depths  upon 

Ere  it  is  born  away,  away, 

By  the  swift  Heavens  that  cannot  stay. 

It  scatters  drops  of  golden  light, 

Like  lines  of  rain  that  ne'er  unite: 

And  the  gloom  divine  is  all  around ; 

And  underneath  is  the  mossy  ground. 

SEMICnORUS   II. 

There  the  voluptuous  nightingales, 

Are  awake  through  all  the  broad  noonday, 
When  one  with  bliss  or  sadness  fails. 

And  through  the  windless  ivy  boughs, 
Sick  with  sweet  love,  droops  djing  away 
On  its  mate's  music-panting  bosom ; 
Another  from  the  swinging  blossom. 

Watching  to  catch  the  languid  close 
Of  the  last  strain,  then  lifts  on  high 
The  wings  of  the  weak  melody, 
Till  some  new  strain  of  feeling  bear 

The  song,  and  all  the  woods  are  mute ; 
When  there  is  heard  through  the  dim  air 
The  rush  of  wintrs,  and  rising  there 

Like  many  a  lake-surrounded  flute. 
Sounds  overflow  the  listener's  brain 
So  sweet  that  joy  is  almost  pain. 


SEMICHORUS    I. 

There  those  enchanted  eddies  ])lay 

Of  echoes,  niusic-tongued,  which  draw, 
By  Demogorgon's  mighty  law. 
With  melting  rapture,  or  sweet  awe. 

All  spirits  on  that  secret  way  ; 

As  inland  boats  are  driven  to  Ocean 

Down  streams  made  strong  witli  mountain  thaw ; 
And  first  there  comes  a  gentle  sound 
To  those  in  talk  or  slumber  bound, 
And  wakes  the  destined,  soft  emotion 

Attracts,  impels  them  ;  those  who  saw 
Say  from  the  breathing  earth  l)ehind 
There  streams  a  plume-uplifting  wind 

Which  drives  them  on  their  path,  while  they 
Believe  their  own  swift  wings  and  feet 

The  sweet  desires  within  obey  : 

And  so  they  float  upon  their  way. 

Until,  still  sweet,  but  loud  and  strong. 
The  storm  of  sound  is  driven  along. 
Sucked  up  and  hurrying :  as  they  fleet 
Behind,  its  gathering  billows  meet 
And  to  the  fatal  mountain  bear 
Like  clouds  amid  the  yielding  air. 

FIRST     FAUJf. 

Canst  thou  imagine  where  those  spirits  live 
Which  make  such  delicate  music  in  the  woods? 
M'^e  haunt  within  the  least  frequented  caves 
And  closest  coverts,  and  we  know  these  wilds, 
Yet  never  meet  them,  though  we  hear  them  oft: 
Where  may  they  hide  themselves  ? 

SECOND    FAUX. 

'Tis  hard  to  tell : 
I  have  heard  those  more  skilled  in  spirits  say. 
The  bubbles,  which  enchantment  of  the  sun 
Sucks  from  the  pale  faint  water-flowers  that  pave 
The  oozy  bottom  of  clear  lakes  and  pools. 
Are  the  pavilions  where  such  dwell  and  float 
Under  the  green  and  golden  atmosphere 
Which  noontide  kindles  through  the  woven  leaves; 
And  when  these  burst,  and  the  thin  fiery  air. 
The  which  they  breathed  within  those  lucent  domes, 
Ascends  to  flow  like  meteors  through  the  night, 
They  ride  on  them,  and  rein  their  headlong  speed. 
And  bow  their  burning  crests,  and  ghde  in  fire. 
Under  the  waters  of  the  earth  again. 

FIRST     FAUX. 

If  such  live  thus,  have  others  other  lives. 
Under  pink  blossoms  or  \\ithin  the  bells 
Of  meadow  flowers,  or  folded  violets  deep. 
Or  on  their  dying  odours,  when  they  die  1 
Or  on  the  sunlight  of  the  sphered  dew  ? 

SKCOXn    FAUN". 

Ay,  many  more  which  W'c  may  well  divine. 
But  should  we  stay  to  speak,  noontide  would  come. 
And  thwart  Silenus  find  his  goats  undrawn. 
And  grudge  to  sing  those  wise  and  lovely  songs 
Of  fate,  and  chance,  and  God,  and  Chaos  old, 
And  Love,  and  the  chained  Titan's  vvoful  doom. 
And  how  he  shall  be  loosed,  and  make  the  earth 
One  brotherhood  :  delightful  strains  which  cheer 
Our  solitary  twilights,  and  which  charm 
To  silence  the  unenvying  nightingales. 


132 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 


SCENE  III. 

A    Pinnar.le  of   Ruck    timnmr    Jifountdhis.       Asia    and 

}*ANTI1EA. 
PAXTHKA. 

Hither  tlie  sound  has  home  us — to  tlio  realm 

Of  Demoirorffon,  and  the  niitrhty  portal, 

Like  a  volcano's  nieteor-hroathinp;  ehasm, 

M'hence  the  oracular  vapour  is  hurleil  up 

Which  lonely  men  drink  wanderinp;  in  their  youth. 

And  call  truth,  virtue,  love,  genius,  or  joy, 

That  maddeninc:  wine  of  life,  whose  dregs  they  drain 

To  deep  intoxication ;  and  uplift. 

Like  Ma-nads  who  cry  loud,  Evoe  !  Evoe  ! 

The  voice  wliich  is  contagion  to  the  world.  • 

ASIA. 

Fit  throne  for  such  a  Power !    Magnificent ! 
How  glorious  art  thou,  Earth  !    And  if  thou  be 
The  shadow  of  some  spirit  lovelier  still, 
Though  evil  stain  it-s  work,  and  it  should  be 
Like  its  creation,  weak  yet  beautiful, 
I  could  fall  down  and  worship  that  and  thee. 
Even  now  my  heart  adorcth  :  Wonderful ! 
Look,  sister,  ere  the  vapour  dim  thy  brain : 
Beneath  is  a  wide  plain  of  billowy  mist, 
As  a  lake,  paving  in  the  morning  sky. 
With  azure  waves  which  burst  in  silver  light, 
Some  Indian  vale.     Behold  it,  rolling  on 
Under  the  curdling  winds,  and  islanding 
The  peak  whereon  wc  stand,  midway,  around, 
Encinctured  by  the  dark  and  blooming  forests, 
Dim  twiliglit  lawns  and  stream-illumined  caves, 
And  wind  enchanted  shapes  of  wandering  mist ; 
And  far  on  high  the  keen  sky-cleaving  mountains, 
From  icy  spires  of  sunlike  radiance  fling 
The  dawn,  as  lifted  Ocean's  dazzling  spray, 
From  some  Atlantic  islet  scattered -up. 
Spangles  the  wind  with  lamplikc  water-drops. 
The  vale  is  girdled  with  their  walls,  a  howl 
Of  Cataracts  from  their  thaw-cloven  ravines 
Satiates  the  listening  wind,  continuous,  vast. 
Awful  as  silence.     Hark  !   the  rushing  snow  ! 
The  sun-awakened  avalanche  !  whose  mass, 
Thrice  sifted  by  the  storm,  had  gathered  there 
Flake  after  flake,  in  heaven-defying  minds 
As  thought  by  thought  is  piled,  till  some  great  truth 
Is  loosened,  and  the  nations  echo  round. 
Shaken  to  their  roots,  as  do  the  mountains  now. 

PANTIIF.A. 

Look  how  the  gusty  sea  of  mist  is  breaking 
In  crimson  f  )am,  even  at  our  feet !  it  rises 
As  Ocean  at  the  enchantment  of  the  moon 
Round  foodlcss  men  wrecked  on  some  oozy  isle. 

ASIA. 

The  fragments  of  the  cloud  arc  scattered  up; 
The  ^vind  that  lifts  them  disentwines  my  hair ; 
Its  billows  now  swce])  o'er  mine  eyes;  my  brain 
Grows  dizzy;  I  s(?c  shapes  within  the  mist. 

PANTIIF-A. 

A  countenance  with  beckoning  smiles:  there  burns 
An  azure  fire  within  its  golden  locks  I 
Another  and  another :  hark!  they  speak  ! 


BONO    OF    SPiniTS. 

To  the  deep,  to  the  deep, 

Down,  down ! 
Through  the  shade  of  sleep, 
Through  the  cloudv  strife 
Of  Death  and  of  Life  ; 
Through  the  veil  and  the  bar 
Of  things  which  seem  and  are. 
Even  to  the  steps  of  the  remotest  throne, 

Down,  down  ! 

While  the  sound  whirls  around, 

Down,  down ! 
As  the  fixv^m  draws  the  hound, 
As  the  lightning  the  vapour. 
As  a  weak  moth  the  taper; 
Death,  desp,air ;  love,  sorrow ; 
Time  both  ;  to-day,  to-morrow ; 
As  steel  obeys  the  spirit  of  the  stone, 

Down,  down ! 

Through  the  gray,  void  abysm, 

Down,  down ! 
M'here  the  air  is  no  prism. 
And  the  moon  and  stars  are  not, 
And  the  cavern-crags  wear  not 
The  radiance  of  Heaven, 
Nor  the  gloom  to  Earth  given, 
^^'hcre  there  is  one  pervading,  one  alone, 

Down,  down ! 
In  the  depth  of  the  deep 

Down,  down ! 
Like  veiled  lightning  asleep, 
Like  the  spark  nursed  in  embers, 
The  last  look  Love  remembers. 
Like  a  diamond,  which  shines 
On  .the  dark  wealth  of  mines. 
A  spell  is  treasured  but  for  thee  alone. 

Down,  down ! 

We  have  bound  thee,  we  guide  thee ; 

Down,  down ! 
With  the  bright  form  beside  thee ; 
Resist  not  the  weakness, 
Such  strength  is  in  meekness 
That  the  Eternal,  the  Immortal, 
Must  unloose  through  life's  portal        [throne 
The  snake-like  Doom  coiled  underneath  his 

By  that  alone. 


SCENE  IV. 

The  Cave  0/ Demogorgon.     Asia  and  Panthea. 

PANTIIEA. 

What  veiled  form  sits  on  that  ebon  throne  1 


The  veil  has  fallen. 

PAXTHF.A. 

I  see  a  niiglity  darkness 
Filling  the  seat  of  power,  and  rays  of  gloom 
Dart  round,  as  light  from  the  meridian  sun, 
Ungazed  ujjon  and  shapeless  ;  neither  limb. 
Nor  form,  nor  outline  ;  yet  wc  feel  it  is 
A  living  spirit. 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 


133 


DEMOGORfJO.V. 

Ask  what  thou  woulJst  know. 


What  canst  thou  tell  1 


i)K>iorrOTir.ox. 
All  things  thou  ilar'st  demand. 

ASIA. 

Who  made  the  living  world  ]  • 

MilMOGORGOy. 

God. 

ASIA. 

Who  made  all 
That  it  contains  ]   thouglit,  passion,  reason,  will, 
Imagination  ! 

DEMOGORGOX. 

God:  Almighty  God. 

ASTA. 

Who  made  that  sense  which,  when  the  winds  of 

In  rarest  visitation  or  the  voice  [spring 

Of  one  beloved  heard  in  youth  alone, 

Fills  the  faint  eyes  with  falling  tears  which  dim 

The  radiant  looks  of  unbewailing  flowers. 

And  leaves  this  peopled  earth  a  solitude 

When  it  returns  no  more  ? 

DEMOGORGOX. 

Merciful  God. 


And  who  made  terror,  madness,  crime,  remorse. 
Which  from  the  links  of  the  great  chain  of  things. 
To  every  thought  within  the  mind  of  man 
Sway  and  drag  heavily,  and  each  one  reels 
Under  the  load  towards  the  pit  of  death ; 
Abandoned  hope,  and  love  that  turns  to  hate 
And  self-contempt  bitterer  to  drink  than  blood ; 
Pain,  whose  unheeded  and  familiar  speech 
Is  howling,  and  keen  shrieks,  day  after  day ; 
And  Hell,  or  the  sharp  fear  of  Hell  ? 


DEMOGORGON, 


He  reigns. 


Utter  his  name  ;  a  world  pining  in  pain 

Asks  but  his  name :  curses  shall  drag  him  down. 


He  reigns. 


DEMOGORGOX. 
ASIA. 

I  feel,  I  know  it ;  who  1 

DEJIOGORGON. 


He 


Who  reigns  1     There  was  the  Heaven  and  Earth 

at  first, 
And  Light  and  Love ;  then  Saturn,  from  whose 

throne 
Time  fell,  an  envious  shadow :  such  the  state 
Of  the  earth's  primal  spirits  beneath  his  sway. 
As  the  calm  joy  of  flowers  and  living  leaves 
Before  the  wind  or  sun  lias  withered  thcin 
And  semi-vital  worms;  but  he  refused 
The  birthright  of  their  being,  knowledge,  power, 


The  skill  which  wields  the  elements,  the  thought 

Which  i)icrces  this  dim  universe  like  light. 

Self-empire,  and  the  majesty  of  love  ; 

For  thirst  of  which  they  fainted.  Then  Promctlicus 

Gave  wisdom,  vv'hich  is  strength,  to  Jupiter, 

And  with  this  law  alone,  "  Let  man  be  free," 

Clothed  him  with  the  dominion  of  wide  Heaven. 

To  know  nor  faith,  nor  love,  nor  law ;  to  be 

Omnipotent  but  friendless  is  to  reign  ; 

And  Jove  now  reigned  ;  for  on  the  race  of  man 

First  famine,  and  then  toil,  and  then  disease. 

Strife,  wounds,  and  ghastly  death  unseen  before, 

Fell ;  and  the  unseasonable  seasons  drove, 

With  alternating  shafts  of  frost  and  fire. 

Their  shelterless,  pale  tribes  to  mountain  caves : 

And  in  their  desert  hearts  fierce  wants  he  sent, 

And  mad  disquietudes,  and  shadows  idle 

Of  unreal  good,  which  levied  mutual  war, 

So  ruining  the  lair  wherein  they  raged. 

Prometheus  saw,  and  waked  the  legioned  hopes 

Which  sleep  within  folded  Elysian  flowers. 

Nepenthe,  Moly,  Amaranth,  fadeless  blooms, 

That  they  might  hide  with  thin  and  rainbow  wings 

The  shape  of  Death  ;  and  Love  he  sent  to  bind 

The  disunited  tendrils  of  that  vine 

Which  bears  the  wine  of  life,  the  human  heart : 

And  he  tamed  fire  which,  like  some  beast  of  prey, 

Most  terrible,  but  lovely,  played  beneath 

The  frown  of  man  ;  and  tortured  to  his  will 

Iron  and  gold,  the  slaves  and  signs  of  power, 

And  gems  and  poisons,  and  all  subtlest  forms 

Hidden  beneath  the  mountains  and  the  waves. 

He  gave  man  speech,  and  speech  created  thought, 

Which  is  the  measure  of  the  universe ; 

And  Science  struck  the  thrones  of  earth  and  heaven. 

Which  shook,  but  fell  not;  and  the  harmonious  mind 

Poured  itself  forth  in  all-prophetic  song ; 

And  music  lifted  up  the  listening  spirit 

Until  it  walked,  exempt  from  mortal  care, 

Godlike,  o'er  the  clear  billows  of  sweet  sound; 

And  human  hands  first  mimicked  and  then  mocked 

With  moulded  limbs  more  lovely  than  its  own, 

The  human  form,  till  marble  grew  divine. 

And  mothers,  gazing,  drank  the  love  men  see 

Reflected  in  their  race,  behold,  and  perish. 

He  told  the  hidden  power  of  herbs  and  springs. 

And  Disease  drank  and  slept.  Death  grew  like  sleep. 

He  taught  the  implicated  orbits  woven 

Of  the  wide-wandering  stars ;  and  how  the  sun 

Changes  his  lair,  and  by  what  secret  spell 

The  pale  moon  is  transformed,  when  her  broad  eye 

Gazes  not  on  the  interlunar  sea: 

He  taught  to  rule,  as  lite  directs  the  limbs. 

The  tempest-winged  chariots  of  the  Ocean, 

And  the  Celt  knew  the  Indian.     Cities  then 

Were  built,  and  through  their  snowlike  columns 

flowed 
The  warm  wimls,  and  the  azure  a>ther  shone. 
And  the  blue  sea  and  shadowy  hills  were  seen. 
Such,  the  alleviations  of  his  state, 
Proniethcus  gave  to  man,  for  which  he  hangs 
Withering  in  destined  paui:  but  who  rains  down 
Evil,  the  immedicable  plague,  which,  while 
Man  looks  on  his  creation  like  a  God 
And  sees  that  it  is  glorious,  drives  him  on 


134 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 


The  wreck  of  his  own  will,  the  scorn  of  earth, 
The  outcast,  tlic  almmioneil,  tlic  alone  ? 
Not  Jove :  while  yet  his  frown  sliook  heaven,  ay, 
His  adversary,  from  adaiiiiintine  chains         [when 
Cursed  him,  he  tremhled  like  a  slave.     Declare 
Who  is  his  master  ?   Is  he  too  a  slave  ? 

DEMOROIIGOX. 

All  spirits  are  enslaved  which  serve  things  evil: 
Thou  knowcst  if  Jupiter  be  such  or  no. 

ASIAt 

Whom  callcd'st  thou  God  1 

UEMOGOUOOX. 

I  spoke  hut  as  ye  speak. 
For  Jove  is  the  supreme  of  living  things. 

ASIA. 

Who  is  the  master  of  the  slave  ] 

DEMoconooy. 

If  the  abysm 
Could  vomit  forth  its  secrets.     But  a  voice 
Is  wantin<^,  the  deep  truth  is  imageless; 
For  what  would  it  avail  to  bid  thee  gaze 
On  the  revolving  world  ]     What  to  bid  sjieak 
Fate,  Time,  Occasion,  Chance  and  Change  1    To 
AH  things  are  subject  but  eternal  Love.  [these 

AsrA. 
So  much  I  asked  before,  and  my  heart  gave 
The  response  thou  hast  given  ;  and  of  such  truths 
Each  to  itself  must  be  the  oracle. 
One  more  demand  ;  and  do  thou  answer  me 
As  my  own  soul  would  answer,  did  it  know 
That  which  I  ask.      Prometheus  shall  arise 
Henceforth  the  sun  of  this  rejoicing  world  : 
When  shall  the  destined  liour  anive  ? 


DEMOGOBOOX. 


Behold ! 


The  rocks  are  cloven,  and  through  the  purple  night 
I  see  cars  drawn  by  rainbow-winged  steeds 
Which  trample  the  dim  winds  :  in  each  there  stands 
A  wild-cycd  charioteer  urging  their  flight. 
Some  look  behind,  as  fiends  pursued  them  there, 
And  yet  I  sec  no  shapes  but  the  keen  stars : 
Others,  with  burning  eyes,  lean  forth,  and  drink 
With  eager  lips  the  wind  of  their  own  speed. 
As  if  the  thing  they  loved  fled  on  before.       [locks 
And  now,  even  now,  they  clas[)ed  it.  'i'heir  l)right 
Stream  like  a  comet's  flashing  hair :  they  all 
Sweep  onward. 

nEMononr.ox. 
These  are  the  immortal  Hours, 
Of  whom  thou  didst  demand.     One  waits  for  thee. 

ASIA. 

A  spirit  with  a  dreadful  countenance 
Checks  its  dark  chariot  by  ihc  craggy  gulf. 
Unlike  thy  brethren,  ghastly  charioteer)     [Speak ! 
Who  art  thou  1     Whither  wouldst  thou  bear  me  1 

spiniT. 
I  am  the  shadow  of  a  destiny 
More  droad  than  is  my  aspect :  ere  yon  planet 
Has  set,  the  (larkness  which  ascends  with  me 
Shall  wrap  in  lasting  night  heaven's  kingless  throne. 


What  meanest  thou  ? 

PAXTIIEA 

That  terrible  shadow  flonts 
T'p  from  its  throne,  as  may  the  lurid  smoke 
Of  earthquake-ruined  cities  o'er  the  sea. 
Lo !  it  ascends  the  car;  the  coursers  fly 
Terrified :  watch  its  path  among  the  stars 
Blackening  the  night ! 

ASIA. 

Thus  lam  answered  :  strange  ! 

PAXTHEA. 

Sec,  near  the  verge,  another  chariot  stays; 
An  ivory  shell  inlaid  with  crimson  tire. 
Which  comes  and  goes  within  its  sculj)tured  rim 
Of  delicate  strange  tracery;  the  young  spirit 
That  guides  it  has  the  dovelike  eyes  of  hope  ; 
How  its  soft  smiles  attract  the  soul !  as  light 
Lures  winged  insects  through  the  lampless  air. 

spiniT. 
My  coursers  arc  fed  with  the  lichtning. 

They  drink  of  the  whirlwind's  stream. 
And  when  the  red  morning  is  Iiriglit'ning 

They  bathe  in  tlie  fresh  sunlieam  ; 

They  have  strength  for  their  swiftness  I  deem. 
Then  ascend  with  me,  daughter  of  Ocean. 

I  desire :  and  their  speed  makes  night  kindle  ; 
I  fear  :  they  outstrip  the  Typhooti ; 

Ere  the  cloud  piled  on  Atlas  can  dwindle 
We  encircle  the  earth  and  the  moon  : 
We  shall  rest  from  long  labours  at  noon  : 

Then  ascend  with  me,  daughter  of  Ocean. 


SCENE  V. 

The  Car  pans^es  vilhin  a  Clovd  on  the  Top  of  a  snctry 
Mountain. 

Asia,  Panthea,  andtheSvjnn  of  the  Horn. 
SPiniT. 
On  the  brink  of  the  night  and  the  morning 

My  coursers  are  wont  to  rcsjiire ; 
But  the  Earth  has  just  whispered  a  warning 
That  their  fliijht  must  be  swifter  than  fire: 
They  shall  drink  the  hot  speed  of  desire  ! 

ASIA. 

Thou  breathest  on  their  nostril?,  but  my  breath 
Would  give  them  swiller  .speed. 

spiniT. 

Alas !  it  could  not. 

PA>'TnEA. 

Oh  S]iirit  pause,  and  tell  whence  is  the  light 
Which  fdls  the  cloud  1   the  sun  is  yet  unrisen. 

SfllUT. 

The  sun  will  rise  not  until  noon.     Apollo 
Is  held  in  heaven  by  wonder;  ami  the  light 
M'hich  fdls  Ibis  vniiour,  as  the  at'-rial  hue 
Of  fountain-gazing  roses  fdls  the  water. 
Flows  from  thy  mighty  sister. 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 


135 


PANTHEA. 


Yes,  I  feel— 


^^^lat  is  it  with  tliee,  sister  1  Thou  art  pale. 

PANTHEA. 

How  thou  art  changed !  I  dare  not  look  on  thee  ; 

I  feel  but  see  thee  not.     I  scarce  endure 

The  radiance  of  thy  beauty.     Some  good  change 

Is  working  in  tlie  elements,  which  suffer 

Thy  presence  thus  unveiled.     The  Nereids  tcjl 

That  on  the  day  when  the  clear  hyaline  ^%W^ 

Was  cloven  at  thy  uprise,  and  thou  didst  stand 

Within  a  veined  shell,  which  floated  on 

Over  the  calm  floor  of  the  crystal  sea, 

Among  the  Egean  isles,  and  by  the  shores 

Which  hear  thy  name  ;  love,  like  the  atmosphere 

Of  the  sun's  fire  lilling  the  living  world, 

Burst  from  thee,  and  illumined  earth  and  heaven 

And  tlie  deep  ocean  and  the  sunless  c^ves 

And  all  that  dwells  within  them ;  till  grief  cast 

Eclipse  upon  the  soul  from  which  it  came : 

Such  art  thou  now  ;  nor  is  it  I  alone, 

Thy  sister,  thy  companion,  thine  own  chosen  one. 

But  the  whole  world  which  seeks  thy  sympathy, 

Hearest  thou  not  sounds  i'  the  air  which  speak  the 

love 
Of  all  articulate  beings  ]     Feelest  thou  not 
The  inanimate  wuids  enamoured  of  thee  1     List  1 


Thy  words  are  sweeter  than  aught  else  hut  his 
Whose  echoes  they  are :  yet  all  love  is  sweet, 
Given  or  returned.     Common  as  light  is  love, 
And  its  familiar  voice  wearies  not  ever, 
liike  the  wide  heaven,  the  all-sustaining  air, 
It  makes  the  reptile  equal  to  the  God  : 
They  who  inspire  it  most  are  fortunate, 
As  I  am  now ;  but  those  who  feel  it  most 
Are  happier  still,  after  long  sufferings. 
As  I  shall  soon  become. 

PAJfTREA. 

List!  Spirits,  speak. 
VOICE   (in  the  air,  singing.) 
Life  of  Life !  thy  lips  enkindle 

With  their  love  the  breath  between  them  ; 
And  thy  smiles  before  they  dwindle 

Make  the  cold  air  fire ;  then  screen  them 
In  those  looks,  where  whoso  gazes 
Faints,  entangled  in  their  mazes. 

Child  of  Light!  thy  limbs  are  burning 

Through  the  vest  which  seems  to  hide  them : 

As  the  radiant  lines  of  mornmg 

Through  the  clouds,  ere  they  divide  them ; 


And  this  atmosphere  divinest 

Shrouds  thee  wheresoe'er  thou  shincst. 

Fair  are  others ;  none  beholds  thee. 
But  thy  voice  sounds  low  and  tender 

Like  the  fairest,  for  it  folds  thee 

From  the  sight,  that  liijuid  splendour, 

And  all  feel,  yet  see  thee  never. 

As  I  feel  now,  lost  for  ever ! 

Lamp  of  Earth!  where'er  thou  movest 
Its  dim  shapes  are  clad  with  l)rightness, 

And  the  souls  of  whom  thou  lovest 
Walk  upon  the  winds  with  lightness, 

Till  they  fliil,  as  I  am  failing, 

Dizzy,  lost,  yet  unbewailing  ! 


My  soul  is  an  enchanted  boat. 

Which,  like  a  sleeping  swan,  doth  float 
Upon  the  silver  waves  of  thy  sweet  singing ; 

And  thine  doth  like  an  angel  sit 

Beside  the  helm  conductuig  it, 
Whilst  all  the  winds  with  melody  are  ringing. 

It  seems  to  float  ever,  for  ever. 

Upon  that  many  winding  river. 

Between  mountains,  woods,  abysses, 

A  paradise  of  wildernesses  ! 
Till,  like  one  in  slumber  bound. 
Borne  to  the  ocean,  I  float  down,  around, 
Into  a  sea  profound,  of  ever-spreading  sound. 

Meanwhile  thy  spirit  lifts  its  pinions 

In  music's  most  serene  dominions ; 
Catching  the  winds  that  i\in  that  happy  heaven. 

And  we  sail  on,  away,  afar, 

Without  a  course,  without  a  star. 
But,  by  the  instinct  of  sweet  music  driven; 

Till  through  Elysian  garden  islets 

By  thee,  most  beautiful  of  pilots. 

Where  never  mortal  pinnace  glided, 

The  boat  of  my  desire  is  guided  : 
Realms  where  the  air  we  breathe  is  love. 
Which  in  the  winds  on  the  waves  doth  move, 
Harmonizing  this  earth  with  what  we  feel  above. 

We  have  passed  Age's  icy  caves. 

And  Manhood's  dark  and  tossing  waves, 
And  Youth's  smooth  ocean,  smihng  to  betray  : 

Beyond  the  glassy  gulfs  we  flee 

Of  shadow-peopled  Infancy, 
Through  Death  and  Birth,  to  a  diviner  day  ; 

A  paradise  of  vaulted  bowers 

Lit  by  downward-gazing  flowers, 

And  watery  paths  that  wind  between 

Wildernesses  calm  and  green. 
Peopled  by  shapes  too  bright  to  sec, 
And  rest,  having  l)eheld  ;  somewhat  like  thee  ; 
Wliich  walk  upon  the  sea,  and  chant  melodiously  ! 


END  OF  THE  SECOND  ACT. 


136 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 


ACT  III. 


SCENE  I. 

Seaten.    Jupiter  on  his  throne  ;  Thetis  and  the  other 

Deities  assembled. 

JUPITER. 

Yc  congrc!2:atod  powers  of  licavcn,  who  share 

Tlic  glory  and  the  streiigth  of  him  yc  serve, 

Rejoice  !  henceforth  I  am  omnijjotent.    ' 

All  else  had  been  subdued  to  me ;  alone 

The  soul  of  man,  like  unextinguished  fire, 

Yet  burns  towards  heaven  with  fierce  reproach, 

and  doubt, 
And  lamentation,  and  reluctant  prayer, 
Hurling  uj)  insurrection,  which  might  make 
Our  antique  empire  insecure,  though  built 
On  eldest  faith,  and  hell's  coeval,  fear; 
And  though  my  curses  through  the  pendulous  air, 
Like  snow  on  hcrbless  peaks,  fall  flake  by  flake. 
And  cling  to  it ;  though  under  rny  wrath's  night 
It  climbs  the  crags  of  life,  step  after  step. 
Which  wound  it,  as  ice  wounds  unsandalled  feet. 
It  yet  remains  supreme  o'er  misery. 
Aspiring,  unreprcsscd,  yet  soon  to  fall  : 
Even  now  have  I  begotten  a  strange  wonder, 
That  fatal  child,  the  teiTor  of  tiie  earth, 
Who  waits  but  till  the  destined  hour  anive, 
Bearing  from  Deniogorgon's  vacant  throne 
The  dreadful  might  of  everliving  limbs 
Which  clothed  that  awful  spirit  unbcheld, 
To  redescend,  and  trample  out  the  spark. 

Pour  fourth  heaven's  wine,  Idsan  Ganymede, 

And  let  it  fill  the  Dajdal  cups  like  fire. 

And  from  the  flower-inwoven  soil  divine, 

Yc  all-triumphant  harmonies  arise, 

As  dew  from  earth  under  the  twilight  stars : 

Drink  !  be  the  nectar  circling  through  your  veins 

The  soul  of  joy,  ye  ever-living  Gods, 

Till  exultation  burst  in  one  wide  voice 

Like  music  from  Elysian  winds. 

And  thou 
Ascend  beside  me,  veiled  in  the  light 
Of  the  desire  which  makes  thee  one  with  me, 
Thetis,  bright  image  of  eternity; 
When  thou  didst  cry,  "  Insuflerablc  night! 
God  !  Sparc  me !   I  sustain  not  the  quick  flames. 
The  penetrating  presence ;  all  my  being, 
Like  him  whom  the  Numidian  seps  did  thaw 
Into  a  dew  with  poison,  is  dissolved. 
Sinking  through  its  foundations:"  even  then 
Two  mighty  spirits,  mingling  made  a  third 
Mightier  than  cither,  which,  unbodied  now, 
Between  us  floats,  felt,  although  unbcheld. 
Waiting  the  incarnation,  which  ascends, 
(Hear  ye  the  thunder  of  the  fiery  wheels 
Grilling  the  winds  1)  from  Deniogorgon's  throne. 
Victory!  victory!   Fcelcsl  thou  not,  O  world ! 
The  earth<iuakc  of  his  chariot  thundering  up 
Olympus ! 

[The  Car  of  IheUnvK  arrires.     Demogoboon  rfe- 
seenil.1  and  mores  towards  the  Throne  of  Jvpitkr. 

Awful  shape,  what  art  thou  ?   Speak  ! 


DEMor.onoox. 

Eternity.     Demand  no  direr  name. 

Descend,  and  follow  me  down  the  abj'ss. 

I  am  thy  child,  as  thou  wert  Saturn's  child ; 

Mightier  than  thee  :  and  we  must  dwell  together 

Henceforth  in  darkness.     Lift  thy  lightnings  not 

The  tyranny  of  heaven  none  may  retain, 

OiWeiissiJme,  or  hold,  succeeding  thee  : 

Yet  if  tliou  wijt,  as  'tis  the  destiny 

Of  trodden  worms  to  writhe  till  they  arc  dead. 

Put  forth  thy  might. 

JUPITEn. 

Detested  prodigy  ! 
Even  thus  beneath  the  deep  Titaniin  prisons 
I  trample  thee  !  Thou  lingerest  T 

Mercy !  mercy ! 
No  pity,  no  release,  no  respite  !  Oh, 
That  thou  wouldat  make  mine  enemy  my  judge, 
Even  wiiere  he  hangs,  scared  by  my  long  revenge. 
On  Caucasus  !  he  would  not  doom  me  thus. 
Gentle,  and  just,  and  dreadlcss,  is  he  not 
The  monarch  of  the  world!   What  then  art  thoul 
No  refuge  !  no  appeal ! 

Sink  witli  me,  then, 
We  two.  will  sink  on  the  wide  waves  of  ruin. 
Even  as  a  vulture  and  a  snake  outspcnt 
Drop,  twisted  in  uiextricable  fight. 
Into  a  shoreless  sea.     Let  hell  unlock 
Its  mounded  oceans  of  tempestuous  fire. 
And  whelm  on  them  mto  the  bottomless  void 
This  desolated  world,  and  thee,  and  me. 
The  conqueror  and  the  conquered,  and  the  wreck 
Of  that  for  which  they  combated. 

Ai!  Ai! 
The  elements  obey  me  not     I  suik 
Dizzily  down,  ever,  for  ever,  down. 
And,  like  a  cloud,  mine  enemy  above. 
Darkens  my  fall  with  victorv' ;     Ai,  Ai ! 


SCENE  II. 

The  Mouth  of  a  great  River  in  the  Island  .Atlantis. 
OcEAS  is  discovered  reclining  near  the  Shore;  Apollo 
stands  beside  him. 

OCEAX. 

He  fell,  thousayest,  beneath  his  conqueror's  frown  1 

APOLLO. 

Ay,  when  the  strife  was  ended  which  made  dim 

The  orb  I  rule,  and  shook  the  solid  stars, 

The  terrors  of  his  eye  illumined  heaven 

With  sanguine  liglit,  through  the  thick  ragged  sltirts 

Of  the  victorious  darkness,  as  he  fell : 

Like  the  last  glare  of  day's  red  agony. 

Which  from  a  rent  among  the  fiery  clouds. 

Burns  far  along  the  tempest-wrinkled  deep. 

ocT.xy. 
He  sunk  to  the  abyss?  To  the  dark  void? 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 


137 


APOLLO. 

An  eagle  so  caught  in  sonic  bursting  cloud 
On  Caucasus,  his  thuuder-lialllcd  wings 
Entangled  in  the  whirlwind,  and  his  eyes 
\Vhicli  gazed  on  the  unda/.zling  sun,  now  blinded 
By  the  white  lightning,  while  the  ponderous  hail 
Beats  on  his  struggling  form,  which  sinks  at  length 
Prone,  and  the  aerial  ice  clings  over  it. 


Henceforth  the  fields  of  HeavcYi-rcflecting  sea 
Which  are  my  realm,  will  heave,  unstained  with 

blood. 
Beneath  the  uplifting  winds  the  plains  of  corn 
Swayed  by  the  summer  air ;  my  streams  will  flow 
Round  many  peopled  continents,  and  rovuid 
Fortunate  isles ;  and  from  their  glassy  thrones 
Bine  Proteus  and  his  humid  nymphs  shall  mark 
The  shadow  of  fair  ships,  as  mortals  see 
The  floating  bark  of  the  light  laden  moon 
With  that  white  star,  its  sightless  pilot's  crest. 
Borne  down  the  rapid  sunset's  ebbing  sea; 
Tracking  their  path  no  niore  by  blood  and  groans, 
And  desolation,  and  the  mingled  voice 
Of  slavery  and  connnand  ;  but  by  the  light 
Of  wave  rellectcd  flowers,  and  floating  odours, 
And  music  soft,  and  mild,  free,  gentle  voices, 
That  sweetest  music,  such  as  spirits  love. 


And  I  shall  gaze  not  on  the  deeds  which  make 
My  mind  obscure  v\'ith  sorrow,  as  eclipse 
Darkens  the  sphere  I  guide ;  but  list,  I  hear 
The  small,  clear,  sdver  lute  of  the  young  Spirit 
That  sits  i'  the  morning  star. 

OCEAN. 

Thou  must  away ; 
Thy  steeds  will  pause  at  even,  till  when  farewell : 
The  loud  deep  calls  me  home  even  now  to  feed  it 
With  azure  calm  out  of  the  emerald  urns 
■  Which  stand  for  ever  full  beside  my  throne. 
Behold  the  Nereids  under  the  green  sea. 
Their  wavering  limbs  borne  on  the  windlike  stream, 
Their  white  arms  hfted  o'er  their  streaming  hair 
With  garlands  pied  and  starry  sea-flower  crowns. 
Hastening  to  grace  their  mighty  sister's  joy. 

[j?  sound  of  waves  is  heard. 
It  is  the  unpastured  sea  hungering  for  calm. 
Peace,  monster  ;  I  come  now.     Farewell. 

APOLLO. 

Farewell. 


SCENE  m. 

Caucasus.  Prometheus,  Hercules,  Tone,  the  Eaktii, 
Spirits,  Asia,  and  Pantiiea,  bvrne  in  the  Car  with 
the  Spirit  of  the  Hour. 

Hercules  unbinds  Prometheus  who  descends. 

HERCULES. 

Most  glorious  among  spirits !  thus  doth  strength 
To  wisdom,  courage,  and  long-sutU'ring  love. 
And  thee,  who  art  the  form  they  animate, 
Minister  like  a  slave. 

18 


PROJrETIIEUS. 

Thy  gentle  words 
Are  sweeter  even  than  freedom  long  desired 
And  long  delayed. 

Asia,  thou  light  of  life. 
Shadow  of  beauty  unbeheld ;  and  ye, 
Fair  sister  nyinphs,  who  made  long  years  of  pain 
Sweet  to  remember,  through  your  love  and  care ; 
noncelbrth  we  will  not  part.     There  is  a  cave. 
All  overgrown  with  trailing  odorous  plants, 
Which  curtain  out  the  day  with  leaves  and  flowers, 
And  paved  with  veined  emerald,  and  a  fountain, 
Leaps  in  the  midst  with  an  awakening  sound. 
From  its  curved  roof  the  mountain's  frozen  tears, 
Like  snow,  or  silver,  or  long  diamond  spires, 
Hang  downward,  raining  forth  a  doubtful  light : 
And  there  is  heard  the  ever-moving  air, 
Whispering  without  from  tree  to  tree,  and  birds. 
And  bees;  and  all  around  are  mossy  seats. 
And  the  rough  walls  are  clothed  with  long  softgi-ass; 
A  simple  dwelling,  which  shall  be  our  own  ; 
Where  we  will  sit  and  talk  of  time  and  change. 
As  the  world  ebbs  and  flows,  ourselves  unchanged. 
What  can  hide  man  from  mutability  ] 
And  if  ye  sigh,  then  I  will  smile;  and  thou, 
lone,  shall  chaunt  fragments  of  sea-music, 
Until  I  weep,  when  ye  shall  smile  away 
The  tears  she  brought  which  yet  were  sweet  to  shed. 
We  will  entangle  buds  and  flowers  and  beams 
Which  twinkle  on  the  fountain's  brim,  and  make 
Strange  combinations  out  of  common  things. 
Like  human  babes  in  their  brief  innocence  ; 
And  we  will  search  with  looks  and  words  of  love, 
For  hidden  thoughts,  each  lovelier  than  the  last, 
Our  unexhausted  spirits  ;  and  like  lutes 
Touched  by  the  skill  of  the  enamoured  wind, 
Weave  harmonies  divine,  yet  ever  new, 
From  ditTerence  sweet  where  discord  cannot  be ; 
And  hither  come,  sped  on  the  charmed  winds, 
Which  meet  from  all  the  points  of  heaven,  as  bees 
From  every  flower  aerial  Enna  feeds, 
At  their  known  island-homes  in  Himera, 
The  eclioes  of  the  human  world,  which  tell 
Of  the  low  voice  of  love,  almost  unheard, 
And  dove-eyed  pity's  murmured  pain,  and  music, 
Itself  the  echo  of  the  heart,  and  all 
That  tempers  or  improves  man's  life,  now  free; 
And  lovely  apparitions,  dim  at  first, 
Then  radiant,  as  the  mind,  arising  bright 
From  the  embrace  of  beauty,  whence  the  forms 
(!)f  which  these  are  the  phantoms,  casts  on  them 
The  gathered  rays  which  are  rerdity. 
Shall  visit  us,  the  progeny  immortal 
Of  Painting,  Sculpture,  and  rapt  Poesy, 
And  arts  though  unimagined,  yet  to  be. 
The  wandering  voices  and  the  shadows  these 
Of  all  that  man  becomes,  the  mediators 
Of  that  best  worship,  love,  by  him  and  us      [grow 
Given  and  returned :  swift  shapes  and  sounds,  which 
More  fair  and  soft  as  man  grows  wise  and  kind. 
And  veil  by  veil,  evil  and  error  fall : 
Such  virtue  has  the  cave  and  place  around. 

[Turninrr  to  the  Spirit  of  the  Hour. 
For  thee,  fair  Spirit,  one  toil  remains.     lone. 
Give  her  that  curved  shell,  which  Proteus  old, 
m2 


138 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 


MaJc  Asia's  nuptial  boon,  broathinp:  within  it 
A  voice  to  be  act-oinplislioJ,  and  wliicli  thou 
Didst  hide  in  grass  under  the  hollow  rock. 


Thou  most  desired  Hour,  more  loved  and  lovely 
Than  all  thy  sisters,  this  the  mystic  shell ; 
See  the  jialr  azure  fadinp  into  silver 
Lining  it  with  a  soft  yet  glowing  light : 
Looks  it  not  like  lulled  muac  sleeping  there  1 

spiniT. 

It  seems  in  truth  the  fairest  shell  of  Ocean  : 

Its  sound  must  be  at  once  both  sweet  and  strange. 

rnOMETHKUS. 

Go,  borne  over  the  cities  of  mankind 
On  whirlwind-footed  coursers  :  once  again 
Outspccd  the  sun  around  tlic  orbed  world; 
And  as  thy  chariot  cleaves  the  kindling  air 
Thou  breathe  into  the  many-folded  shell, 
Loosening  its  mighty  music;  it  shall  be 
As  thunder  mingled  with  clear  echoes :  then 
Return ;  and  thou  shalt  dwell  beside  our  cave. 

And  thou,  0  Mother  Earth  ! — 

TUE    EAllTH. 

I  hear,  I  feel ; 
Thy  lips  are  on  me,  and  thy  touch  runs  down 
Even  to  the  adamantine  central  gloom 
Along  these  marble  nerves ;  'tis  life,  'tis  joy, 
And,  through  my  withered,  old,  and  icy  frame 
The  w.armth  of  an  innnortal  youth  shoots  down 
Circling.     Henceforth  the  many  children  fair 
Folded  in  my  sustaining  arms ;  all  plants, 
And  creeping  forms,  and  insects  rainbow-winged. 
And  birds,  and  beasts,  and  fish,  and  human  shapes, 
^\'hi(■h  drew  disease  and  pain  from  my  wan  bosom, 
Draining  the  poison  of  despair,  shall  take 
And  interchange  sweet  nutriment;  to  me 
Shall  they  become  like  sister-antelopes 
By  one  fair  dam,  snow-white  and  swill  as  wind, 
Nursed  among  lilies  near  a  brimming  stream. 
The  dew-mists  of  my  sunless  sleep  shall  float 
Under  the  stars  like  balm :  night-folded  flowers 
Shall  suck  unwithering  hues  in  their  repose : 
And   men    and    beasts    in    happy    dreams    shall 

gather 
Strength  for  the  coming  day,  and  all  its  joy : 
And  death  shall  be,  the  last  embrace  of  her 
Who  takes  the  life  she  gave,  even  as  a  mother, 
Folding  her  child,  says,  "  Leave  me  not  again." 

ASIA. 

Oh,  mother !  wherefore  speak  the  name  of  death  1 
Cease  they  to  love,  and  move,  and  breathe,  and 

speak, 
Who  die? 

THE    EATITII, 

It  would  avail  not  to  reply : 
Thou  art  immortal,  and  this  tongue  is  known 
But  to  the  uncomnuniicating  dead. 
Death  is  the  veil  which  those  who  live  call  life : 
They  sleep,  and  it  is  lifted :  and  meanwhile 
In  mild  variety  tlie  seasons  mild 


With  rainbow-skirted  showers,  and  odorous  winds. 
And  long  blue  meteors  cleansing  the  dull  night. 
And  the  life-kindling  shafts  of  the  keen  sun's 
All-])icrcing  bow,  and  the  dew-mingled  rain 
Of  the  calm  moonbeams,  a  soft  influence  mild, 
Shall  clothe  the  forests  and  the  fields,  ay,  even 
The  crag-built  deserts  of  the  barren  deep. 
With  ever-living  leaves,  and  fruits,  and  flowers. 
And  thou !  There  is  a  cavern  T\liere  my  sjnrit 
Was  panted  forth  in  anguish  whilst  thy  pain 
Made  my  heart  mad,  and  those  that  did  inhale  it 
Became  mad  too,  and  built  a  temple  there, 
And  spoke,  and  were  oracular,  and  lured 
The  erring  nations  round  to  mutual  war. 
And  faithless  faith,  such  as  Jove  kept  with  thee ; 
Which  breath  now  rises,  as  amongst  tall  weeds 
A  violet's  exhalation,  and  it  fills 
With  a  serener  light  and  crimson  air 
Intense,  yet  soft,  the  rocks  and  woods  around; 
It  feeds  the  quick  growth  of  the  serpent  vine. 
And  the  dark  linked  ivy  tangling  wild, 
And  budding,  blown,  or  odour-fadid  blooms 
Which  star  the  winds  with  points  of  coloured  light, 
As  they  rain  through  them,  and   bright   golden 

globes 
Of  finiit,  suspended  in  tlieir  owti  green  heaven. 
And  through  their  veined  leaves  aiul  amber  stems 
The  flowers  whose  purple  and  translucid  bowls 
Stand  ever  mantling  with  aerial  dew. 
The  drink  of  spirits :  and  it  circles  round. 
Like  the  soft  waving  wings  of  noonday  dreams, 
Inspiring  calm  and  huj)})y  thoughts,  like  mine. 
Now  thou  art  thus  restored.     This  cave  is  thine. 
Arise !  Appear ! 

[j3  SpiniT  rises  in  the  lilceness  of  a  icingcd  cliild. 
This  is  my  torch-bearer ; 
Who  let  his  lamp  out  in  old  time  with  ga/ing 
On  eyes  from  whicli  he  kindled  it  anew 
With  love,  which  is  as  fire,  sweet  daughter  mine, 
For  such  is  that  within  thine  own.  Run,  way  ward. 
And  guide  this  company  beyond  the  jieak 
Of  Bacchic  Nysa,  Mrcnad-haunted  mountain. 
And  beyond  Indus  and  its  tribute  rivers. 
Trampling  the  torrent  streams  and  glassy  lakes 
With  feet  unwet,  unwearied,  undelauiig, 
And  up  the  greei)  ravine,  across  the  vale. 
Beside  the  windless  arnl  crystalline  pool. 
Where  ever  lies,  on  unerasing  waves, 
The  image  of  a  tcmjile,  built  above. 
Distinct  with  column,  arch,  and  architrave. 
And  palmlike  capital,  and  overwrought. 
And  populous  most  with  living  imagery, 
Praxitelean  sha])es,  whose  marble  smiles 
Fill  the  hushed  air  with  everlasting  love. 
It  is  deserted  now,  but  once  it  bore 
Thy    name,    Prometheus;     there    the    emulous 

youths 
Bore  to  thy  honour  through  the  divine  gloom 
The   lamp   which   was   thine    emblem ;    even    as 

those 
Who  bear  the  untransmitted  torch  of  hope 
Into  the  grave,  across  the  night  of  life. 
As  thou  hast  borne  it  most  triumphantly 
To  this  fair  goal  of  Time.     Depart,  farewell. 
Beside  that  temple  is  the  destined  cave. 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 


139 


SCENE  IV. 

^Forest.     In  the  Buck-ground  a  Care.     Prometheus, 
Asia.  Pantula,  Ioue, and  ihe  Spirit  of  the  Eauth. 

lOXE. 

Sister,  it  is  not  earthly  :  how  it  glides 
Under  the  leaves !  how  on  its  head  there  burns 
A  light,  like  a  green  star,  whose  emerald  beams 
Are  twined  with  its  fair  hair !  how,  as  it  moves, 
The  splendour  drops  in  flukes  upon  the  grass ! 
Knowcst  thou  it  ? 

PANTHEA. 

It  is  the  delicate  spirit 
That  guides  the  earth  through  heaven.  From  afar 
The  populous  eonstcllatiojis  call  that. light 
The  loveliest  of  the  planets ;  and  sometimes 
It  floats  along  the  spray  of  the  salt  sea, 
Or  makes  its  chariot  of  a  foggy  cloud, 
Or  walks  through  fields  or  cities  while  men  sleep. 
Or  o'er  the  mountain  tops,  or  down  the  rivers. 
Or  through  the  green  waste  wilderness,  as  now, 
Wondering  at  all  it  sees.     Before  Jove  reigned 
It  loved  our  sister  Asia,  and  it  came 
Each  leisure  hour  to  drink  the  liquid  light 
Out  of  her  ej'es,  for  which  it  said  it  thirsted 
As  one  bit  by  a  dipsas,  and  with  her 
It  made  its  childish  confidence,  and  told  her 
All  it  had  known  or  seen,  for  it  saw  much. 
Yet  idly  reasoned  what'it  saw ;  and  called  her. 
For  whence  it  sprung  it  knew  not,  nor  do  I, 
Mother,  dear  mother. 
THE  spiinT  OF  THE  EAiiTu  Cninnhig  to  Asia.") 

Mother,  dearest  mother ; 
May  I  then  talk  with  thee  as  I  was  wont  ] 
May  I  then  hide  my  eyes  in  thy  soft  arms, 
After  thy  looks  have  made  them  tired  of  joy  1 
May  I  tlien  play  beside  thee  the  long  noons. 
When  work  is  none  in  the  bright  silent  air  1 

ASIA. 

I  love  thee,  gentlest  being !  and  henceforth 
Can  cherish  thee  unenvied.     Speak,  I  pray : 
Thy  simple  talk  once  solaced,  now  delights. 

SPIRIT    OF    THE    EARTH. 

Mother,  I  am  gTown  wiser,  though  a  child 
Cannot  be  wise  like  thee,  within  this  day; 
And  happier  too  ;  happier  and  wiser  both,  [worms. 
Thou  knowest  that  toads,  and  snakes,  and  loathly 
And  venomous  and  malicious  beasts,  and  boughs 
That  bore  ill  berries  in  the  woods,  were  ever 
A  hindrance  to  my  walks  o'er  the  green  world : 
And  that,  among  the  haunts  of  humankind. 
Hard-featured  men,  or  with  proud,  angry  looks, 
Or  cold,  staid  gait,  or  false  and  hollow  smiles. 
Or  the  dull  sneer  of  self-loved  ignorance, 
Or  other  such  foul  masks,  with  which  ill  thoughts 
Hide  that  fair  being  whom  we  spirits  call  man ; 
And  women  too,  ugliest  of  all  things  evil, 
(Though  fair,  even  in  a  world  where  thou  art  fair. 
When  good  and  kind,  free  and  sincere  like  thee,) 
WTien  false  or  frowning  made  me  sick  at  heart 
To  pass  them,  though  they  slept,  and  I  unseen. 
Well,  my  path  lately  lay  through  a  great  city 
Into  the  woody  hills  surrounding  it : 
A  sentinel  was  sleeping  at  the  gate : 


When  there  was  heard  a  sound,  so  loud,  it  shook 

The  towers  amid  the  moonlight,  yet  more  sweet 

Tlian  any  voice  but  thine,  sweetest  of  all; 

A  long,  long  sound,  as  it  would  never  end: 

And  all  the  inhabitants  leapt  suddenly 

Out  of  their  rest,  and  gathered  in  the  streets. 

Looking  in  wonder  up  to  Heaven,  while  yet 

The  music  pealed  along.     I  hid  myself 

Within  a  fountain  in  the  public  square. 

Where  I  lay  like  the  rellex  of  the  moon 

Seen  in  a  wave  under  green  leaves ;  and  soon 

Those  ugly  human  shapes  and  visages 

Of  which  I  spoke  as  having  wrought  me  pain. 

Past  floating  through  the  air,  and  fading  still 

Into  the  winds  that  scattered  them ;  and  those 

From  whom  they  past  seemed  mild  and  lovely  forms 

After  some  foul  disguise  had  fallen,  and  all 

Were  somewhat  changed,  and  after  brief  surprise 

And  greetings  of  delighted  wonder,  all 

Went  to  their  sleep  again:  and  when  the  dawn 

Came,  wouldst  thou  think  that  toads,  and  snakes. 

Could  e'er  be  beautiful  T  yet  so  they  were,  [and  efts, 

And  that  with  little  change  of  shape  or  hue: 

All  things  had  put  their  evil  nature  off': 

I  cannot  tell  m_y  joy,  when  o'er  a  lake 

Upon  a  drooping  bough  with  nightshade  twined, 

I  saw  two  azure  halcyons  clinging  downward 

And  thinning  one  bright  bunch  of  amber  berries. 

With  quick  long  beaks,  and  in  the  deep  there  lay 

Those  lovely  forms  imaged  as  in  a  sky ; 

So  with  my  thoughts  full  of  these  happy  changes, 

We  meet  again,  the  happiest  change  of  all. 

ASIA. 

And  never  will  we  part,  till  thy  chaste  sister 
Who  guides  the  frozen  and  inconstant  moon 
Will  look  on  thy  more  warm  and  equal  light 
Till  her  heart  thaw  like  flakes  of  April  snow, 
And  love  thee. 

SPIRIT    OF    THE    EARTH. 

What !  as  Asia  loves  Prometheus  ? 


Peace,  wanton  !  thou  art  yet  not  old  enough. 
Think  ye  by  gazing  on  each  other's  eyes 
To  multiply  your  lovely  selves,  and  fill 
With  sphered  fires  the  interlunar  air  ■? 

SPIRIT    OF    THE    EARTH. 

Nay,  mother,  while  my  sister  trims  her  lamp 
'Tis  hard  I  should  go  darkling. 

ASIA. 

Listen ;  look ! 
The  Spirit  of  the  Hocr  enters. 

PROMETHEUS. 

We  feel  what  thou  hast  heard  and  seen :  yet  speak. 

spirit    of    the    HOUR. 

Soon  as  the  sound  had  ceased  whose  thunder  filled 
The  abysses  of  the  sky  and  the  wide  earth, 
There  was  a  change :  the  impalpable  thin  air 
And  the  all-circling  sunlight  were  transformed. 
As  if  the  sense  of  love,  dissolved  in  them. 
Had  folded  itself  round  tJie  sphered  world. 
My  vision  then  grew  clear,  and  I  could  see 


140 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 


Into  the  niyslerips  of  the  universe  : 

Dizzy  as  with  delight  I  tloated  down, 

WiiinowLn<T  tlie  huhtsoine  air  witli  languid  phimcs, 

Mv  coursers  souj^ht  their  hirthpluce  in  the  sun, 

Where  they  henceforth  will  live  exempt  from  toil, 

Pasturins^  flowers  of  vej;etal)le  lire. 

And  where  my  moonlike  ear  will  stand  within 

A  temple,  gazed  upon  hy  Phidian  forms 

Of  thee,  and  Asia,  and  the  Earth,  and  me, 

.\nd  you  fair  nymphs,  lookiiis;  the  love  we  feel; 

la  memory  of  the  tidint;;s  it  has  borne; 

Beneath  a  dome  fretted  with  graven  flowers. 

Poised  on  twelve  columns  of  resplendent  stone, 

And  open  to  the  bright  and  liquid  sky. 

Yoked  to  it  by  an  amphishenic  snake 

The  likeness  of  those  winged  steejs  will  mock 

The  flight  from  wliich  they  find  repose.     Alas, 

Whither  has  wandered  now  my  partial  tongue 

When  all  remains  untold  which  ye  would  hear] 

As  I  have  said,  I  floated  to  the  earth : 

It  wa-s,  as  it  is  still,  the  pain  of  bliss 

To  move,  to  breathe,  to  be ;  I  wandering  went 

Among  the  haunts  and  dwellings  of  mankind, 

And  first  was  disappointed  not  to  see 

Such  mighty  change,  as  I  had  felt  within. 

Expressed  in  outward  tilings;  but  soon  I  looked, 

And  beliold,  thrones  were  kingless,  and  men  walked 

One  with  the  otlier  even  as  spirits  do, 

None  flxwned,  none  trampled;  hate,  disdain,  or  fear 

Self-love  or  self-contempt,  on  human  brows 

No  more  inscribed,  as  o'er  the  gate  of  hell, 

"  All  hope  abandon  ye  who  enter  here ;" 

None  frown'd,  none  tremljled,  none  with  eager  fear 

Gazed  on  another's  eye  of  cold  command, 

Until  the  subject  of  a  tyrant's  will 

Became,  worse  fate,  the  abject  of  his  own, 

Which  spurred  him,  like  an  outspent  horse,  to  death. 

None  wrought  liis  lips  in  truth-entangling  lines. 

Which  smiled  the  lie  his  tongue  disdained  to  speak; 

None,  with  firm  sneer,  trod  out  in  his  own  heart 

The  sparks  of  love  and  hope  till  there  remained 

Those  bitter  ashes,  a  soul  self-consumed. 

And  the  wretch  crept  a  vamjjire  among  men, 

Infecting  all  with  his  own  hideous  ill ; 

None  talked  that  common,  false,  cold,  hollow  talk 

Which  makes  tlie  heart  deny  the  yts  it  breathes, 

Yet  question  that  unmeant  hypocrisy 

With  such  a  self-mistrust  as  has  no  name. 

And  women,  too,  frank,  beautiful,  and  kind 

As  the  free  heaven  which  rains  fresh  light  and  dew 

On  the  wide  earth,  i)ast;  gentle  radiant  forms, 

From  custom's  evil  taint  exempt  and  pure ; 


Speaking  the  wisdom  once  they  could  not  think, 

Looking  emotions  once  they  feared  to  feel. 

And  changed  to  all  which  once  they  dared  not  Ite, 

Yet  being  now,  made  earth  like  heaven;  nor  pride, 

Nor  jealousy,  nor  envy,  nor  ill-shame. 

The  bitterest  of  those  drops  of  treasured  gall, 

Spoilt  the  sweet  taste  of  the  nepenthe,  love. 

Thrones,   altars,    judgment    scats,   and  prisons; 

wherein. 
And  beside  which,  by  wretched  men  were  borne 
Sceptres,  tiaras,  swords,  and  chains,  and  tomes 
Of  reiisoned  wrong,  glozed  on  hy  ignorance, 
^^'ere  like  those  monstrous  and  barbaric  shapes, 
The  ghosts  of  a  no  more  remembered  lame. 
Which,  from  their  unworn  obelisks,  look  forth 
In  triumph  o'er  the  }>alaccs  and  tombs  [round 

Of  those  who  were  their  conquerors :  moulderuig 
Those  imaged  to  the  pride  of  kings  and  priests, 
A  dark  yet  mighty  faith,  a  power  as  wide 
As  is  the  world  it  wasted,  and  arc  now 
But  an  iistonishmcnt;  even  so  the  tools 
And  emblems  of  its  last  captivity. 
Amid  the  dwellings  of  the  peopled  earth. 
Stand,  not  o'erthrown,  but  unregarded  now. 
And  those  foul  shapes,  abhorred  bj-  god  and  man, 
Which,  under  many  a  name  and  many  a  form, 
Strange,  savage,  ghastly,  dark,  and  execrable, 
W^erc  Jupiter,  the  tyrant  of4the  world; 
And  which  the  nations,  panic-stricken,  served 
With  blood,  and  hearts  broken  by  long  hope,  and 
Dragged  to  his  altars  soiled  and  garlandlcss,     [love 
And  slain  among  men's  unreclaiming  tears, 
Flattering  the  thing  they  feared,  which  fear  W'as 

hate. 
Frown,    mouldering    fast,    o'er    their    abandoned 

shrines  : 
Tlie  painted  veil,  by  those  who  were,  called  life, 
Which  mimick'd,  as  with  colours  idly  sj>read, 
All  men  believed  and  hoi)ed,  is  torn  aside ; 
The  loathsome  mask  has  fallen,  the  man  remains 
Scejjtreless,  free,  uncircumscribed,  but  man 
E'pial,  unclasscd,  triheless,  and  nationless. 
Exempt  from  awe,  worship,  degree,  the  king 
Over  himself;  just,  gentle,  wise :  but  man 
Passionless;  no,  yet  free  from  guilt  or  j)ain, 
Which  were,  for  his  will  made  or  suflered  them. 
Nor  yet  exempt,  though  ruling  them  like  slaves, 
From  chance,  and  death,  and  nuit^d)ility, 
'I'he  clogs  of  that  which  else  might  oversoar 
The  loftiest  star  of  unascended  heaven, 
Piiniacled  dim  in  the  uitcnsc  inane. 


END   OF    THE  THIRD   ACT- 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 


141 


ACT  IV. 


Scene, — A  part  of  the  Forest  near  the  cave  of  Prome- 
theus. Panthea  and  Ione  are  sleeping:  they 
atcakcn  gradually  during  the  first  Song. 

VOICE   or  UXSEEX   SPIRITS. 

The  pale  stars  are  gone  ! 
For  the  sun,  their  swill  shepherd 
To  their  folds  them  compclhng, 
In  the  depths  of  the  dawn, 
Hastes,  in  meteor-eclipsing  array,  and  they  flee 
Beyond  his  blue  dwelling, 
As  fawns  Hee  the  leopard, 
But  where  are  ye  I 

A  train  of  dark  Forms  and  Sliadows  pass  hy  confusedly 
singing. 
Here,  oh  !  here  : 
We  bear  the  bier 
Of  the  Father  of  man}'  a  cancelled  year ! 
Spectres  we 
Of  the  dead  Hours  be, 
We  bear  time  to  his  tomb  in  eternity. 

Strew,  oh !  strew 

Hair,  not  yew ! 
Wet  the  dust}-  pall  with  tears,  not  dew ! 

Be  the  faded  flowers 

Of  Death's  bare  bowers 
Spread  on  the  corpse  of  the  King  of  Hours ! 

Haste,  oh,  haste ! 

As  shades  are  chased. 
Trembling,  hy  day,  from  heaven's  blue  waste. 

We  melt  away. 

Like  dissolving  spray, 
From  the  children  of  a  diviner  day, 

With  the  lullaby 

Of  winds  that  die 
On  the  bosom  of  their  own  harmony  ! 

lOXE. 

What  dark  forms  were  thej-  ] 

PAXTHEA. 

The  past  Hours  weak  and  gray, 
With  the  spoil  which  their  toil 

Raked  together 
From  the  conquest  but  One  could  foil. 

lOXE. 

Have  they  past  ? 

PAXTHEA. 

They  have  past ; 
They  outspeeded  the  blast, 
Wliilc  'tis  said,  they  are  fled : 

IONE. 

Whither,  oh !  whither  1 

PAXTIIEA. 

To  the  dark,  to  the  past,  to  the  dead. 

VOICE   OP  UXSEEN-   SPIRITS. 

Bright  clouds  float  in  heaven. 
Dew-stars  gleam  on  earth. 
Waves  assemble  on  ocean, 
They  are  gathered  and  driven 

t  


By  the  storm  of  delight,  by  the  panic  of  glee ! 
They  shake  with  emotion, 
They  dance  in  their  mirth. 
But  where  are  ye? 

The  pine  boughs  are  singing 
Old  songs  with  new  gladness, 
The  billows  and  fountains 
Fresh  music  are  flinging. 
Like  the  notes  of  a  spirit  from  land  and  from  sea ; 
The  storms  mock  the  mountains 
With  the  thunder  of  gladness. 
But  where  are  ye  1 

lOXE. 

What  charioteers  are  these  ] 

PAXTHEA. 

Where  are  their  chariots  ? 

SEMicHonrs  of  hours. 
The  voice  of  the  Spirits  of  Air  and  of  Earth 
Have  drawn  back  the  figured  curtain  of  sleep 
Which  covered  our  being  and  darkened  our  birth 
Li  the  deep. 

A  VOICE. 

In  the  deep  1 

SEMICHORUS    II. 

Oh  !  below  the  deep. 

SEMICHORUS  I. 

A  hundred  ages  we  had  been  kept 
Cradled  in  visions  of  hate  and  care, 
And  each  one  who  waked  as  liis  brother  slept, 
Found  the  truth — ■ 

SEMICHORUS   ir. 

Worse  than  his  ^^slons  were  ! 

SEMICHORUS   I. 

We  have  heard  the  lute  of  Hope  in  sleep ; 
We  have  known  the  voice  of  Love  in  dreams. 
We  have  felt  the  wand  of  Power,  and  leap — 

SEMICHORUS   II. 

As  the  billows  leap  in  the  morning  beams ! 

CHORUS. 

Weave  the  dance  on  the  floor  of  the  breeze, 

Pierce  with  song  heaven's  silent  light, 
Enchant  the  day  that  too  swiftly  flees, 

To  check  its  flight  ere  the  cave  of  night 
Once  the  hungry  Hours  were  hounds 

Which  chased  the  day  like  a  bleeding  deer. 
And  it  limped  and  stumbled  with  many  wounds 

Through  tlic  nightly  dells  of  the  desert  year. 
But  now,  oh !  weave  the  mystic  measure 

Of  music,  and  dance,  and  shapes  of  light. 
Let    the    Hours,  and    the    spirits  of  might   and 
pleasure, 

Like  the  clouds  and  sunbeams,  unite. 

A   VOICE. 

Unite. 


1 4: 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 


PASTIIEA. 

Src,  whrro  the  Spirits  of  tlii'  human  mind 
Wra;)t  in  sweet  sounds,  as  in  brii,'lit  veils, 
approadi. 

riiours  or  si-iiuTS. 
Wo  join  the  throng 
Of  the  dance  ami  the  son?, 
By  the  whirlwind  of  gladness  borne  along; 
As  the  flyiiig-fish  leap 
From  the  Indian  deep, 
And  mix  with  the  sea-birds  half-asleep. 

ciiours  OF  uouns. 
Whence  come  yc,  so  wild  and  so  fleet. 
For  sandals  of  Hghtning  are  on  your  feet. 
And  vour  wings  arc  soil  and  swift  as  thought, 
And  your  eyes  are  as  love  which  is  veiled  not  ? 

CHOUUS  OF  SPIRITS. 

We  come  from  the  mind 

Of  human  kind. 
Which  was  late  so  dusk,  and  obscene,  and  blind; 

Now  'tis  an  ocean 

Of  clear  emotion, 
A  heaven  of  serene  and  mighty  motion. 

From  that  deep  abyss 
Of  wonder  and  bliss, 
Whose  caverns  are  crystal  jjalaces ; 
From  those  skiey  towers 
Where  thought's  crowned  powers 
Sit  watching  your  dance,  ye  happy  Hours ! 

From  the  dim  recesses 

Of  woven  caresses, 
Wliere  lovers  catch  ye  by  your  loose  tresses ; 

From  the  azure  isles, 

Wliere  sweet  Wisdom  smiles. 
Delaying  your  ships  with  her  syren  wiles. 

From  the  temples  high 

Of  Man's  ear  and  eye. 
Roofed  over  Sculpture  and  Poesy; 

From  the  murmurings 

Of  the  unsealed  springs 
Where  Science  bedews  his  Dffidal  wings. 

Years  after  years. 

Through  blood,  and  tears. 
And  a  thick  hell  of  hatreds,  and  hopes,  and  fears ; 

We  waded  and  flew. 

And  the  islets  were  few 
Where  the  bud-blighted  flowers  of  happiness 
grew. 

Our  feet  now,  every  palm. 

Are  sandalled  with  calm. 
And  the  dew  of  our  wings  is  a  rain  of  balm ; 

And,  l)cyond  our  eyes, 

The  human  love  lies, 
Which  makes  all  it  gazes  on  Paradise. 

ciionrs  OF  rpikits  and   nouns. 

Then  weave  the  web  of  the  mystic  measure ; 
From  thcdeiithsof  thesky  and  the  ends  of  the  earth. 

Come,  swift.  Spirits  of  might  and  of  pleasure, 
Fill  the  dance  and  the  music  of  mirth, 

As  the  waves  of  a  thousand  streams  rush  by 

To  an  ocean  of  splendour  and  harmony  ! 


CHonrs  OF   spiuits. 

Our  sjpoil  is  won, 

Our  task  is  done. 
We  are  free  to  dive,  or  soar,  or  run: 

Beyond  and  around. 

Or  within  the  bound 
Wliich  clips  the  world  with  darkness  round. 

We'll  pass  the  eyes 

Of  the  sUirry  skies 
Into  the  hoar  deep  to  colonize ; 

Death,  Chaos,  and  Night, 

From  the  sound  of  our  flight, 
Shall  flee,  like  mist  from  a  tempest's  might 

And  Earth,  Air,  and  I-ight, 

And  the  Sj)irit  of  Might, 
Which  drives  round  the  stars  in  their  fierj-  flight; 

And  Love,  Thought,  and  Breath, 

The  powers  that  ([ucll  Death, 
Wherever  we  soar  shall  assemble  beneath. 

And  our  singing  shall  build 

In  the  void's  loose  field 
A  world  for  the  Spirit  of  \\'isdom  to  wield ; 

We  will  take  our  plan 

From  the  new  world  of  man 
And  our  work  shall  be  called  the  Promethean. 

CHORUS    OF    HOIKS. 

Break  the  dance,  and  scatter  the  song; 
Let  some  depart,  and  some  remain. 

sr.Miciionrs  i. 
We,  beyond  heaven,  arc  driven  along : 

SKMICHOUUS    II. 

Us  the  enchantments  of  earth  retain : 

SEMICHORCS    I. 

Ceaseless,  and  rapid,  and  fierce,  and  free, 

With  the  Spirits  which  build  a  now  earth  and  sea, 

And  a  heaven  where  yet  heaven  could  never  be. 

SEMICHOUUS    II. 

Solemn,  and  slow,  and  serene,  and  bright, 
Leading  the  Day,  and  outspeeding  tlio  Night, 
With  the  powers  of  a  world  of  perfect  light. 

SEMirnonus   i. 
We  whirl,  singing  loud,  round  the  gathering  sphere. 
Till  the  trees,  and  the  beasts,  and  the  clouds  appear 
From  its  chaos  made  calm  by  love,  not  fear. 

SEMICnORUS    II. 

We  encircle  the  ocean  and  mountains  of  earth, 
And  the  happy  forms  of  its  death  and  birth 
Change  to  the  music  of  our  sweet  mirth. 

cnnnrs  of  hours  avd  spirits. 
Break  the  dance,  and  scatter  the  song, 

TjOt  some  dejiart  and  some  remain, 
\\'herev('r  we  fly  we  lead  along 
In  leashes,  like  starbeams,  soft  yet  strong. 

The  clouds  that  arc  heavy  with  love'sswect  rain. 

PAJfTHfiA. 

Ha !  they  arc  gone ! 

lONK. 

Yet  fbel  you  no  delight 
From  the  past  sweetness ! 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 


143 


PANTHEA. 

As  the  barp  ^ecn  hill 
When  some  soft  cloud  vanishes  into  r.iin, 
Laughs  with  a  thousand  drops  of  suiuiy  water 
To  the  unpavilioncd  sky  ! 

lONE. 

Even  whilst  we  spealc 
New  notes  arise.     "What  is  that  awful  sound "? 

PAXTHKA. 

'Tis  the  deep  music  of  the  roUin;?  world, 
Kindling  within  the  strings  of  the  waved  air 
^'Eolian  modulations. 

lOXE. 

Listen  too, 
How  every  pause  is  filled  with  under-notes. 
Clear,  silver,  icy,  keen  awakening  tones, 
Which  pierce  the  sense,  and  live  witliin  the  soul, 
As  the  sharp  stars  pierce  winter's  crj'stal  air 
And  gaze  upon  themselves  within  the  sea. 

PAXTHEA. 

But  see  where,  through  two  openings  in  the  forest 
Which  hanging  branches  overcanopy, 
And  where  two  runnels  of  a  rivulet, 
Between  the  close  moss,  violet  inwoven, 
Have  made  their  path  of  melody,  like  sisters 
Who  part  with  sighs  that  they  may  meet  in  smiles, 
Turning  their  dear  disunion  to  an  isle 
Of  lovely  grief,  a  wood  of  sweet  sad  thoughts ; 
Two  visions  of  strange  radiance  float  upon 
The  ocean-like  enchantment  of  strong  sound. 
Which  flows  intenscr,  keener,  deeper  yet 
Under  the  ground  and  through  the  windless  air. 


I  see  a  chariot  like  that  thinnest  boat 

In  which  the  mother  of  the  months  is  borne 

By  ebhing  night  into  her  western  cave. 

When  she  upsprings  from  interlunar  dreams, 

O'er  which  is  curbed  an  orblike  canopy 

Of  gentle  darkness,  and  the  hills  and  woods 

Distinctly  seen  through  that  dusk  airy  veil, 

Regard  like  shapes  in  an  enchanter's  glass ; 

Its  wheels  are  solid  clouds,  azure  and  gold. 

Such  as  the  genii  of  the  thunderstorm 

Pile  on  the  floor  of  the  illumined  sea 

When  the  sun  rushes  under  it ;  they  roll 

And  move  and  grow  as  with  an  inward  wind; 

Within  it  sits  a  winged  infant,  white 

Its  countenance,  like  the  whiteness  of  bright  snow, 

Its  plumes  are  as  feathers  of  sunny  frost. 

Its  limbs  gleam  white,  through  the  wind-flowing 

Of  its  white  robe,  woof  of  stherial  pearl.         [folds 

Its  hair  is  white,  the  brightness  of  white  light 

Scattered  in  strings ;  yet  its  two  eyes  are  heavens 

Of  liquid  darkness,  which  the  Deity 

Within  seems  pouring,  as  a  storm  is  poured 

From  jagged  clouds,  out  of  their  arrowy  lashes, 

Tempering  the  cold  and  radiant  air  around. 

With  fire  that  is  not  brightness ;  in  its  hand 

It  sways  a  quivering  moonbeam,  from  whose  point 

A  guiding  power  directs  the  chariot's  prow 

Over  its  wheeled  clouds,  which  as  they  roll 

Over  the  grass,  and  flowers,  and  waves,  wake  sounds, 

Sweet  as  a  singing  rain  of  silver  dew. 


PAXTHEA. 

And  from  the  other  opening  in  tlie  wood 

Rushes,  with  loud  and  whirlwind  harmony, 

A  sphere,  which  is  as  many  thousand  spheres. 

Solid  as  crystal,  yet  through  all  its  mass 

Flow,  as  through  empty  space,  music  and  light : 

Ten  thousand  orbs  involving  and  involved, 

Purj)le  and  azure,  white,  green  and  golden. 

Sphere  within  sphere  ;  and  every  space  between 

Peopled  with  unimaginable  shapes. 

Such  as  ghosts  dream  dweH  in  the  lampless  deep, 

Yet  each  inter-transpicuous,  and  they  whirl 

Over  each  other  with  a  thousand  motions. 

Upon  a  thousand  sightless  axles  spinning. 

And  with  the  force  of  self-destroying  swiftness, 

Intensely,  slowly,  solemnly,  roll  on. 

Kindling  with  mingled  sounds,  and  many  tones, 

Intelligible  words  and  music  wild. 

With  mighty  whirl  the  multitudinous  orb 

Grinds  the  bright  brook  into  an  azure  mist 

Of  elemental  sul)tlcty,  like  light; 

And  the  wild  odour  of  the  forest  flowers, 

The  music  of  the  living  grass  and  air. 

The  emerald  light  of  leaf-entangled  beams 

Round  its  intense  yet  self-conflicting  speed, 

Seem  kneaded  into  one  aerial  mass 

Which  drowns  the  sense..    Within  the  orb  itself, 

Pillowed  upon  its  alabaster  arms. 

Like  to  a  child  o'erwcaried  with  sweet  toil, 

On  its  own  folded  wings,  and  wavy  hair, 

The  Spirit  of  the  Earth  is  laid  asleep. 

And  you  can  see  its  little  lips  are  moving. 

Amid  the  changing  light  of  their  own  smiles. 

Like  one  who  talks  of  what  he  loves  in  dream. 


'Tis  only  mocking  the  orb's  harmony. 

PAXTHEA. 

And  from  a  star  upon  its  forehead,  shoot 
Like  swords  of  azuie  fire,  or  golden  spears 
With  tyrant-quelling  myrtle  overtwined. 
Embleming  heaven  and  earth  united  now, 
^'ast  beams  like  spokes  of  some  invisible  wheel 
AMiich  whirl  as  the  orb  whirls,  swifter  than  thought, 
Filling  the  abyss  with  sunlike  hghtnings. 
And  perpendicular  now,  and  now  transverse. 
Pierce  the  dark  soil,  and  as  they  pierce  and  pass, 
Make  bare  the  secrets  of  the  earth's  deep  heart ; 
Infinite  mine  of  adarriant  and  gold. 
Valueless  stones,  and  unimagined  gems. 
And  caverns  on  cr\-stalline  columns  poised 
With  vegetable  silver  oversj)read  ; 
Wells  of  unfathomed  fire,  and  water  springs 
Whence  the  great  sea,  even  as  a  child  is  fed, 
Whose  vapours  clothe  earth's  monarch  mountain- 
tops 
With  kingly,  ermine  snow.     The  beams  flash  on 
And  make  appear  the  melancholy  ruins 
Of  cancelled  cycles ;  anchors,  beaks  of  ships ; 
Planks  turned  to  marble ;  quivers,  helms,  and  spears, 
And  gorgon-headed  targes,  and  the  wheels 
Of  scythed  chariots,  and  the  emblazonry 
Of  trophies,  standards,  and  armorial  beasts, 
Round  which  death  laughed,  sepvdchred  emblems 
Of  dead  destruction,  ruin  within  ruin  ! 


141 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 


The  wrecks  beside  of  many  a  city  vast, 
M'hose  population  whicli  the  earth  p^rcw  over 
Was  mortal,  but  not  human ;  sec,  they  lie 
Their  monstrous  works,  and  uneoutii  skeletons, 
Their  statues,  homes  and  fanes;  prodigious  shapes 
Huddled  in  (jray  anniliilation,  split, 
Jammed  in  the  iiard.  Mack  deep ;  and  over  these, 
The  anatomies  of  unknown  winged  things, 
And  fishes  which  were  isles  of  living  scale, 
And  serpents,  bony  chains,  twisted  around 
The  iron  crags,  or  within  heaps  of  dust 
To  which  the  tortuous  strength  of  their  last  pangs 
Had  crushed  the  iron  crags ;  and  over  these 
The  jagged  alligator,  and  the  might 
Of  earth-convulsing  behemoth,  which  once 
Were. monarch  beasts,  and  on  the  slimy  shores, 
And  weed-overgrown  continents  of  earth. 
Increased  and  multiplied  like  summer  worms 
On  an  abandoned  corpse,  till  the  blue  globe 
Wrapt  deluge  round  it  like  a  cloak,  and  they 
Yelled,  gasped,  and  were  abolished ;  or  some  God 
Whose  throne  was  in  a  comet,  past,  and  crit^d, 
Be  not !    And  like  my  words  tliey  were  no  more. 

THE    EARTH. 

The  joy,  the  triumph,  the  delight,  the  madness  ! 

The  boundless,  overflowing,  bursting  gladness, 

The  vaporous  exultation  not  to  be  confined  ! 
Ha  !  Ha  !  the  animation  of  delight 
Which  wTaps  me,  like  an  atmosphere  of  light, 

And  bears  me  as  a  cloud  is  borne  by  its  own  wind. 

.  THE    MOOX. 

Brother  mine,  calm  wanderer, 

Happ}-  globe  of  land  and  air. 
Some  Spirit  is?  darted  like  a  beam  from  tjiee, 

Which  penetrates  my  frozen  frame. 

And  passes  with  the  warmth  of  flame, 
With  love,  and  odour,  and  deep  melody 

Through  me,  through  me  ! 

THE    EARTH. 

Ha  !  Ha !  the  caverns  of  my  hollow  mountains, 
My  cloven  fire-crags,  sound-exulting  fountains. 
Laugh  with  avast  and  unextinguishable  laughter. 
The  oceans,  and  the  deserts,  and  the  abysses, 
x\nd  the  deep  air's  unmeasurej  wildernesses, 
Answer  from  all  their  clouds  and  billows,  echoing 
after. 

They  cry  aloud  as  I  do.     Sceptred  curse, 
Who  all  our  green  and  azure  universe 
Threatenedst  to  muflle  round  with  black  destruc- 
tion, sending 
A  solid  cloud  to  rain  hot  thunder-stones. 
And  sj)linter  and  knead  down  my  children'sbones, 
All  I  bring  forth,  to  one  void  mass  battering  and 
blending. 

Until  each  craglikc  tower,  and  storied  column, 
Palace,  and  obelisk,  and  temple  solemn. 
My  imperial  mountains  crowned  with  cloud,  and 
snow,  and  fire  ; 
My  sealike  forests,  every  blade  and  blossom 
Which  finds  a  grave  or  cradle  in  my  bosom. 
Were  stamped  by  thy  strong  hate  into  a  lifeless 
mire. 


How  art  thou  sunk,  withdrawn,  covered,  drunk  up 
By  thirsty  notiiing,  as  the  brackish  cup 

Drained  by  a  desert  troop,  a  little  drop  for  all; 
And  from  bcneat'i,  around,  within,  above. 
Filling  thy  void  ainiihilation,  love  [ball. 

Bursts  in  like  light  pn  caves  cloven  by  the  thunder- 

THK     THOOX. 

The  snow  upon  my  lifeless  mountains 

Is  loosened  into  living  fountains. 
My  solid  oceans  flow,  and  sing,  and  shine : 

A  spirit  from  my  he;u-t  bursts  forfh, 

It  clothes  with  unexpected  birth 
My  cold  bare  bosom  :  Oh !  it  must  be  thine 
On  mine,  on  mine  ! 

Gazing  on  thee  I  feel,  I  know, 

CJreen  stalks  burst  forth,  and  bright  flowers  grow. 
And  living  shaj)es  upon  my  bosom  move : 

Music  is  in  the  sea  and  air. 

Winged  clouds  soar  here  and  there. 
Dark  with  the  rain  new  buds  are  dreaming  of: 
'Tis  love,  all  love ! 

THE    EAUTH. 

It  interpenetrates  my  granite  mass. 

Through  tingled  roots  and  trodden  clay  doth  pass, 
Into  the  utmost  leaves  and  delicatest  flowers ; 

Upon  the  winds,  among  the  clouds  'tis  spread. 

It  wakes  a  life  in  the  forgotten  dead,  rl)owers. 
They  breathe    a   spirit   up    from    their   obscurest 

And  like  a  storm  bursting  its  cloudy  prison 
With  thunder,  and  with  whirlwind,  has  arisen 
Out  of  the  lampless  caves  of  unimagined  being; 
With  earthquake  shock  and  swiftness  making 

shiver 
Thought's  stagnant  chaos,  unremoved  for  ever, 
Till    hate,  and    fear,    and   pain,  light-vanquished 
shadows,  fleeing, 

T^eave  Man,  who  was  a  many-sided  mirror, 
Which  could  distort  to  many  a  shape  of  error, 

This  true  fair  world  of  things,  a  sea-reflecting  love; 
Which  over  all  his  kind,  as  the  sun's  heaven 
Gliding  o'er  ocean,  smooth,  serene,  and  even 

Darting  from  starry  depths  radiance  and  fight,  doth 
move, 

Leave  Man,  even  as  a  leprous  child  is  lefl, 
Who  follows  a  sick  beast  to  some  warm  cleft 

Of  rocks,  through    which   the    might  of  hcaUng 
sj)rings  is  poured ; 
Then  when  it  wanders  home  with  rosy  smile, 
Unconscious,  and  its  mother  fears  awhile 

It  is  a  spirit,  then,  weeps  on  her  child  restored. 

Man,  oh,  not  men !  a  chain  of  linked  thought, 
Of  love  and  mi^ht  to  be  divided  not. 

Compelling  the  elements  with  adamantine  stress; 
As  the  sun  rules,  even  with  a  tyrant's  gaze. 
The  unquiet  re|)ublic  of  the  maze     [wilderness. 

Of  planets,  struggling  fierce  towards  heaven's  free 

Man,  one  harmonious  soul  of  many  a  soul. 

Whose  nature  is  its  own  divine  control, 
Where  all  things  flow  to  all,  as  rivers  to  the  sea; 

Familiar  acts  are  beautiful  through  love ; 

Labour,  and  pain,  and  grief,  in  life's  green  grove 
Sport  like  tame  l)easts,  none  knew  how  gentle  they 
could  be ! 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 


145 


His  will,  with  all  mean  passions,  bad  delights. 
And  selfish  cares,  its  trembling  satellites, 
A  spirit  ill  to  guide,  but  mighty  to  obey, 

Is  as  a  tempest-winged  ship,  whose  helm  [whelm, 
liOve  rules,  through  waves  which  dare  not  over- 
Forcing  life's  wildest  shores  to  own  its  sovereign 
sway. 

All  things  confess  his  strength.  Through  the  cold 
Of  marble  and  of  colour  his  dreams  pass ;  [mass 
Bright  threads  whence  mothers  weave   the  robes 
their  children  wear ; 
I^anguage  is  a  perpetual  Orphic  sohg. 
Which  rules  with  Daedal  harmony  a  throng 
Of  thoughts   and   forms,  which  else  senseless  and 
shapeless  were. 

The  lightning  is  his  slave;  heaven's  utmost  deep 

Gives  up  her  stars,  and  like  a  flock  of  sheep 
They  pass  before  his  eyes,  are  numbered  and  roll  on ! 

The  tempest  is  his  steed,  he  strides  the  air ; 

And  the  abyss  shouts  from  her  depth  laid  bare. 
Heaven,  hast  thou  secrets  ]     Man  unveils   me  ;  I 
have  none. 

THE    MOON. 

The  shadow  of  white  death  has  past 

From  my  path  in  heaven  at  last, 
A  clinging  shroud  of  solid  frost  and  sleep ; 

And  through  my  newly-woven  bowers, 

Wander  happy  paramours. 
Less  mighty,  but  as  mild  as  those  who  keep 
Thy  vales  more  deep. 

THE    EARTH. 

As  the  dissolving  warmth  of  dawn  may  fold 
A  half  unfrozen  dew-globe,  green  and  gold, 

And  crystalline,  till  it  becomes  a  winged  mist. 
And  wanders  up  the  vault  of  the  blue  day. 
Outlives  the  noon,  and  on  the  sun's  last  ray 

Hangs' o'er  the  sea,  a  fleece  of  lire  and  amethyst. 

THE    MOON. 

Thou  art  folded,  thou  art  lying 

In  the  light  which  is  undying 
Of  ihine  own  joy,  and  heaven's  smile  divine  ; 

All  suns  and  constellations  shower 

On  thee  a  light,  a  life,  a  power 
Which  doth  array  thy  sphere ;  thou  pourest  thine 
On  mine,  on  mine  ! 

THE   xahth. 
I  spin  beneath  my  pyramid  of  night, 
Which  points  into  the  heavens  dreaming  delight. 
Murmuring  victorious  joy  in  my  enchanted  sleep; 
As  a  youth  lulled  in  love-dreams  faintly  sighing. 
Under  the  shadow  of  his  beauty  lying. 
Which  roimil  his  rest  a  watch  of  light  and  warmth 
doth  keej). 

THE    MOON. 

As  in  the  soft  and  sweet  eclipse. 

When  soul  meets  soul  on  lovers'  lips, 
High  hearts  are  calm,  and  brightest  eyes  are  dull ; 

So,  when  thy  shadow  falls  on  me. 

Then  am  I  mute  and  still,  by  thee 
Covered  ;  of  thy  love,  Orb  most  beautiful, 

Full,  oh,  too'fuU ! 

19 


Thou  art  speeding  round  the  sun, 

Brightest  world  of  many  a  (irw. ; 

Cireeii  and  azure  sphere  which  shincst 

With  a  light  which  is  divincst 

Among  all  the  lamps  of  Heaven 

To  whom  life  and  light  is  given; 

I,  thy  crystal  paramour. 

Borne  lieside  thee  by  a  power 

Like  the  polar  Paradise, 

Magnet-like,  of  lovers'  eyes; 

I,  a  most  enamoured  maiden. 

Whose  weak  brain  is  overladen 

With  the  pleasure  of  her  love, 

Maniac-like  around  thee  move 

Gazing,  an  insatiate  bride, 

On  thy  form  from  every  side. 

Like  a  Ma-nad,  round  the  cup, 

Which  Agave  lifted  up 

In  the  weird  Cadmcan  forest. 

Brother,  whcrcso'er  thou  soarest 

I  must  hurry,  whirl  and  follow 

Through  the  heavens  wide  and  hollow, 

Sheltered  by  the  warm  embrace 

Of  thy  soul  from  hungry  space, 

Drinking  from  thy  sense  and  sight 

Beauty,  majesty,  and  might. 

As  a  lover  or  chameleon 

Grows  like  what  it  looks  upon, 

As  a  violet's  gentle  eye 

Gazes  on  the  azure  sky 
Until  its  hue  grows  like  what  it  beholds, 

As  a  gray  and  watery  mist 

Glows  like  solid  amethyst 
Athwart  the  western  mountain  it  enfolds 

When  the  sunset  sleeps 
Upon  its  snow. 

THE    EAHTH. 

And  the  weak  day  weeps 

That  it  should  be  so. 
0  gentle  Moon,  the  voice  of  thy  delight 
Falls  on  me  like  thy  clear  and  tender  hght 
Soothing  the  seamen,  borne  the  summer  night 

Through  isles  for  ever  calm ; 
O  gentle  Moon,  thy  crystal  accents  pierce 
The  caverns  of  my  pride's  deep  universe, 
Charming  the  tiger  joy,  whose  trampUngs  fierce 

Made  wounds  which  need  thy  balm. 

PANTHEA. 

I  rise  as  from  a  bath  of  sparkling  water, 
A  bath  of  azure  light,  among  dark  rocks. 
Out  of  the  stream  of  sound. 


Ah  me !  sweet  sister. 
The  stream  of  sound  has  ebbed  away  from  us, 
And  you  pretend  to  rise  out  of  its  wave. 
Because  your  words  fall  like  the  clear  sotl  dew 
Shaken  from  a  ballung  wood-nymph's  limbs  and 
hair. 

PANTHEA. 

Peace,  peace !  a  mighty  Power,  which  is  as  darkness. 

Is  rising  out  of  Earth,  and  from  the  sky 

Is  showered  hkc  night,  and  from  witiiin  the  air 


146 


PROMEI'HEUS    UNBOUND. 


Bursts,  like  eclipse  wliii-li  had  hcvn  (»atlirrcJ  up 
Into  the  pores  of  suiili;i;lit :  tlie  britrhl  visions, 
Wherein  the  sincin-;  s|»irils  rode  iind  shone. 
Gleam  like  pale  meteors  through  a  watery  night. 

lO.VE. 

There  is  a  sense  of  words  upon  mine  ear. 

PANTHKA. 

A  universal  sound  Ukc  words:  Oh,  list! 
DEMononcox. 

Thou,  Earth,  calm  empire  of  a  happy  soul, 
Sphere  of  divinest  shapes  and  harmonies, 

Beautiful  orh!   Katlicrin;^  as  thou  dost  roll 

The  love  which  paves  thy  path  along  the  skies: 

THE    KAIITH. 

I  hear :  I  am  as  a  drop  of  dew  that  dies. 

DEXOnOHGOX. 

Thou  Moon,  which  gazcst  on  the  nightly  Earth 
With  wonder,  as  it  gazes  upon  thee ; 

Whilst  each  to  men,  and  beasts,  and  the  swift  birth 
Of  birds,  is  beauty,  love,  calm,  harmony  : 

THE    MOOy. 

I  hear :  I  am  a  leaf  shaken  bj-  thee  ! 

BEMOfiOKGOX. 

Ye  kings  of  suns  and  stars  !   Demons  and  Gods, 
^therial  Dominations!  who  possess 

Elysian,  windless,  fortunate  abodes 

Beyond  Heaven's  constellated  wilderness : 

A    VOICE    FROM    ABOVE. 

Our  great  Republic  hears ;  we  are  blest  and  bless. 

DEMOGORGOX. 

Ye  happy  dead  !  whom  beams  of  brightest  verse 
Are  clouds  to  hide,  not  colours  to  portray, 

Whether  your  nature  is  that  universe 
Wliich  once  ye  saw  and  suffered — 

A    VOICE    FROM     BEXEATH. 

Or  as  they 
Whom  we  have  left,  we  change  and  pass  away. 

DEMOOORGOX. 

Ye  elemental  Genii,  who  have  homes 

From  man's  high  mind  even  to  the  central  stone 
Of  sullen  lead;  from  Heaven's  star-fretted  domes 

To  the  dull  weed  some  seaworm  battens  on : 


A    CONFUSEIl     VOICE. 

We  hear :  thy  words  waken  Oblivion. 

DEMOOORGOX. 

Spirits  !  whose  homes  arc  flesh :  ye  beasts  and  birds, 
Ye  worms  and  fish  ;  ye  living  leaves  and  buds  ; 

Lightning  and  wind ;  and  ye  untanieable  herds, 
Meteors  and  mists,  which  throng  air's  sohtudes, 

A    VOICE. 

Thy  voice  to  us  is  wind  among  still  woods. 

DEMOOORGOX. 

Man,  who  wert  once  a  despot  and  a  slave ; 

A  dupe  and  a  deceiver;  a  decay; 
A  traveller  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave 

Through  the  dim  night  of  this  immortal  day : 


Speak !  thy  strong  words  may  never  pass  away. 

BEMOGORCOX. 

This  the  day,  which  down  the  void  abysm 
At  the  Earthborii's  spell  yawns  for  Heaven's  des- 
potism, 

And  Conquest  is  dragged  captive  through  the 
deep ; 
Love,  from  its  awful  throne  of  patient  power 
In  the  wise  heart,  from  the  last  giddy  hour 

Of  dread  endurance,  from  the  slippery,  steep, 
And  narrow  verge  of  craglike  agony,  sjjrings 
And  folds  over  the  world  its  healing  wings. 

Gentleness,  Virtue,  Wisdom,  and  endurance, 
These  are  the  seals  of  that  most  firm  assurance 

Which  bars  the  pit  over  Destruction's  strength; 
And  if,  with  infirm  hand,  Eternity, 
Mother  of  many  acts  and  hours,  sliould  free 

The    serpent    that   would    clasp    her  with  his 
length. 
These  are  the  spells  by  which  to  reassume 
An  empire  o'er  the  disentangled  doom. 

To  suffer  woes  which  Hope  thinks  infinite  ; 
To  forgive  wrongs  darker  than  deatli  or  night ;  | 
To  defy  Power,  which  seems  omnipotent ;       \ 
To  love  and  bear;  to  hope  till  Ho])e  creates  j 

From  its  own  wreck  the  thing  it  contemplates: 
Xeither  to  change,  nor  faulter,  nor  repent; 
This  like  the  glory,  TiUxii !  is  to  be 
Good, great  and  joyous,  beautiful  and  free; 
This  is  alone  Life,  Joy,  Empire,  and  Victory  ! 


NOTE  ON  THE  PROMETHEUS  UNBOUND. 

BY  THE  EDITOR. 


Ov  the  12th  of  March,  1818,  Shelley  quitted 
England,  never  to  return.  His  principal  motive 
was  the  hope  that  his  health  would  be  improved  by 
a  milder  climate ;  he  suffered  very  much  during 


the  winter  previous  to  his  emigration,  and  this 
decided  his  vacillating  purpose.  In  December, 
1817,  he  had  written  from  Marlow  to  a  friend, 
saying : 


EDITOR'S    NOTE    ON    PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 


147 


"  My  health  has  been  materially  worse.  My 
feelings  at  intervals  are  of  a  deadly  and  torpid 
kind,  or  awakened  to  such  a  state  of  unnatural  and 
keen  excitement,  that  only  to  instance  the  organ 
of  sight.  I  fnid  the  very  blades  of  grass  and  the 
boughs  of  distant  trees  present  themselves  to  me 
with  microscopic  distinctness.  Towards  evening  I 
sink  into  a  state  of  lethargy  and  inanimation,  and 
often  remain  for  hours  on  the  sofa  between  sleep 
and  waking,  a  prey  to  the  most  painful  irritability 
of  thought.  Such,  with  little  intermission,  is  my 
•condition.  The  hours  devoted  to  study  are  selected 
with  vigilant  caution  from  among  these  periods 
of  endurance.  It  is  not  for  this  that  I  think  of 
travelling  to  Italy,  even  if  1  knew  that  Italy  would 
relieve  me.  But  I  have  experienced  a  decisive 
pulmonary  attack,  and  although  at  present  it  has 
passed  away  without  any  considerable  vestige  of 
its  existence,  yet  this  symptom  sufficiently  shows 
the  true  nature  of  my  disease  to  be  consumptive. 
It  is  to  my  advantage  that  this  malady  is  in  its 
nature  slow,  and,  if  one  is  sufficiently  alive  to  its 
advances,  is  susceptible  of  cure  from  a  warm  climate. 
In  the  event  of  its  assuming  any  decided  shape, 
it  would  be  my  duty  to  go  to  Italy  without  delay. 
It  is  not  mere  health,  but  life,  that  1  should  seek, 
and  that  not  for  my  own  sake ;  I  feel  I  am  capable  of 
trampling  on  all  such  weakness — but  for  the  sake 
of  those  to  whom  my  life  maj'  be  a  source  of 
happiness,  utility,  security,  and  honour  —  and  to 
some  of  whom  my  death  might  be  all  that  is  the 
reverse." 

In  almost  every  respect  his  joimicy  to  Italy  was 
advantageous.  He  left  behind  friends  to  whom  he 
was  attached,  but  cares  of  a  thousand  kinds,  many 
springing  from  his  lavish  generosity,  crowded 
round  him  in  his  native  country :  and,  except  the 
society  of  one  or  two  friends,  he  had  no  compen- 
sation. The  climate  caused  him  to  consume  half 
his  existence  in  helpless  suffering.  His  dearest 
pleasure,  the  free  enjoyment  of  the  scenes  of  nature, 
was  marred  by  the  same  circumstance. 

He  went  direct  to  Italy,  avoiding  even  Paris 
and  did  not  make  any  pause  till  he  arrived  at 
Milan.  The  first  aspect  of  Italy  enchanted 
Shelley;  it  seemed  a  garden  of  delight  placed 
beneath  a  clearer  and  brighter  heaven  than  any  he 
had  lived  under  before.  He  wrote  long  descriptive 
letters  during  the  first  year  of  his  residence  in  Italy, 
which,  as  compositions,  arc  the  most  beautiful  in 
the  world,  and  show  how  trulj'  he  ajipreciated  and 
studied  the  wonders  of  nature  and  art  in  that  divine 
land. 

The  poetical  spirit  within  him  speedily  revived 
with  all  the  power  and  with  more  than  all  the 


beauty  of  his  first  attempts  He  meditated  three 
sulijects  as  the  groundwork  for  lyrical  Dramas. 
One  was  the  story  of  Tasso;  of  this  a  slight  frag- 
ment of  a  song  of  Tasso  remains.  'I  he  other  was 
one  founded  on  the  book  of  Job,  which  he  never 
abandoned  in  idea,  but  of  which  no  trace  remains 
among  his  papers.  The  third  was  the  •'  Prometheus 
Unbound."  The  (ircek  tragedians  wore  now  his 
most  familiar  comj)anions  hi  his  wanderings,  and 
the  sublime  majesty  of  ^Eschylus  fdled  him  with 
wonder  and  delight.  The  father  of  Greek  tragedy 
does  not  possess  the  pathos  of  Sophocles,  nor  the 
variety  and  tenderness  of  Euripides;  the  interest 
on  which  he  founds  his  dramas  is  often  elevated 
above  human  vicissitudes  into  the  mighty  passions 
and  throes  of  gods  and  demigods — such  fascinated 
the  abstract  imagination  of  Shelley. 

We  spent  a  month  at  Milan,  visiting  the  Lake 
of  Como  during  that  interval.  Thence  we  passed 
in  succession  to  Pisa,  Leghorn,  the  Baths  of  Lucca, 
Venice,  Este,  Rome,  Naples,  and  back  again  to 
Rome,  whither  we  returned  early  in  March,  1819. 
During  all  this  time  Shelley  meditated  the  subject 
of  his  drama,  and  wrote  portions  of  it.  Other 
poems  were  composed  during  this  interval,'  and 
while  at  the  Bagni  di  Lucca  he  translated  Plato's 
Symposium.  But  though  he  diversified  his  studies, 
his  thouglits  centred  m  the  "Prometheus."  At 
last,  when  at  Rome,  during  a  bright  and  beautiful 
spring,  he  gave  up  his  whole  time  to  the  compo- 
sition. The  spot  selected  for  his  study  was,  as  he 
mentions  in  his  prtface,  the  mountainous  ruins  of 
the  Baths  of  Caracalla.  These  are  little  known  to 
the  ordinary  visiter  at  Rome.  He  describes  them 
in  a  letter,  with  that  poetry,  and  delicacy,  and 
truth  of  description,  which  render  l.is  narrated 
impressions  of  scenery  of  unequalled  beauty  and 
interest. 

At  first  he  completed  the  drama  in  three  acts. 
It  was  not  until  several  months  after,  when  at 
Florence,  that  he  conceived  that  a  fourth  act,  a 
sort  of  hymn  of  rejoicing  in  the  fulfilment  of  the 
prophecies  with  regard  to  Prometheus,  ought  to  be 
added  to  complete  the  composition. 

The  prominent  feature  of  Shelley's  theory  of 
the  destiny  of  the  human  species  was,  that  evil  is 
not  inherent  in  the  system  of  the  creation,  but  an 
accident  that  might  be  expelled.  This  also  forms 
a  portion  of  Christianity ;  God  made  earth  and  man 
perfect,  till  he,  by  his  fall, 

"Brought  deatli  into  the  world  and  all  our  wo." 

Shelley  believed  that  mankind  had  only  to  will 
that  there  should  be  no  evil,  and  there  would  be 
none.     It  is  not  my  part  in  these  notes  to  notice 


148 


EDITOR'S    NOTE    ON    PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND. 


the  arguments  that  have  been  ursreil  against  this 
opinipiijbut  to  mention  tlie  fact  that  he  entertained 
it,  and  was  indeed  attached  to  it  with  fe^^cnt 
enthusiasm.  That  man  could  be  so  perfectionized 
as  to  be  able  to  expel  evil  from  his  own  nature, 
and  from  the  greater  part  of  the  creation,  was  the 
cardinal  point  of  his  system.  And  the  subject  he 
loved  best  to  dwell  on,  was  the  image  of  One  war- 
ring with  the  Evil  Principle,  oppressed  not  only  by 
it,  but  by  all,  even  the  good,  who  were  deluded  into 
considering  evil  a  necessary  portion  of  humanity. 
A  victim  full  of  fortitude  and  hope,  and  the  spirit 
of  triumph  emanating  from  a  rcUance  in  the  ulti- 
mate omnipotence  of  good.  Such  he  had  depicted 
in  his  last  poem,  when  he  made  Laon  the  enemy 
and  the  victim  of  tyrants.  He  now  took  a  more 
idcaUzed  image  of  the  same  subject.  He  followed 
certain  classical  authorities  in  figuring  Saturn  as  the 
good  principle,  Jupiter  the  usurped  evil  one,  and 
Prometheus  as  the  regenerator,  who,  unable  to 
bring  mankind  back  to  primitive  innocence,  used 
knowledge  as  a  weapon  to  defeat  evil,  by  leading 
mankind  beyond  the  state  wherein  they  are  sinless 
through  ignorance,  to  that  in  which  they  are 
virtuous  through  wisdom.  Jupiter  punished  the 
temerity  of  the  Titan  by  chaining  him  to  a  rock  of 
Caucasus,  and  causing  a  vulture  to  devour  his  still 
renewed  heart.  There  was  a  prophecy  afloat  in 
heaven  portending  the  fall  of  Jove,  the  secret  of 
averting  which  was  known  only  to  Prometheus  ; 
and  the  god  ofTered  freedom  from  torture  on  con- 
dition of  its  being  communicated  to  him.  Accord- 
ing to  the  mythological  stor)%  this  referred  to  the 
oflspring  of  Thetis,  who  was  destined  to  be  greater 
than  his  father.  Prometheus  at  last  brought 
pardon  for  his  crime  of  enriching  mankind  with 
his  gifts,  by  revealing  the  prophecy.  Hercules 
killed  the  vulture  and  set  him  free,  and  Thetis  was 
married  to  Pcleus,  the  father  of  Achilles. 

Shellej'  adapted  the  catastrophe  of  this  story  to 
his  peculiar  views.  The  son,  greater  than  his 
father,  bom  of  the  nuptials  of  Jupiter  and  Thetis, 
was  to  dethrone  Evil,  and  bring  back  a  happier 
reign  than  that  of  Saturn.  Prometheus  defies  the 
power  of  his  enemy,  and  endures  centuries  of  tor- 
ture, till  the  hour  arrives  when  Jove,  blind  to  the 
real  event,  but  darkly  guessing  that  some  great 
good  to  himself  will  flow,  espouses  Thetis.  At 
the  moment,  the  Primal  Power  of  the  world  drives 
him  from  his  usurped  throne,  and  Strength,  in 
the  person  of  Hercules,  liberates  Humanity,  typi- 
fied in  Prometheus,  from  the  tortures  generated  by 
evil  done  or  suffered.  Asia,  one  of  the  Occanides, 
is  the  wife  of  Prometheus — she  was,  according  to 
other  mythological  interpretations,  the  same  as 
Venus  and  Nature.     When   the   Benefactor  of 


,  Mankind  is  liberated.  Nature  resumes  the  beauty 
of  her  prime,  ami  is  united  to  her  husband,  the 
emblem  of  the  human  race,  in  perfect  and  happy 
union.  In  the  Fourth  Act,  the  Poet  gives  further 
scope  to  his  imagination,  and  idealizes  the  forms 
of  creation,  such  as  we  know  them,  instead  of  such 
as  they  appeared  to  the  Greeks.  Maternal  Earth, 
The  mighty  Parent,  is  superseded  by  the  Spirit  of 
the  Earth — ^the  guide  of  our  Planet  through  the 
realms  of  sky — while  his  fair  and  weaker  companion 
and  attendant,  the  Spirit  of  the  Moon,  receives 
bliss  from  the  annihilation  of  Evil  in  the  superior 
sphere. 

Shelley  developes,  more  particularly  in  the  lyrics 
of  this  drama,  his  abstruse  and  imaginative  theories 
with  regard  to  the  Creation.  It  requires  a  mind 
as  subtle  and  penetrating  as  liis  own  to  understand 
the  mystic  meanings  scattered  throughout  the 
poem.  They  elude  the  ordinarv'  reader  by  their 
abstraction  and  delicacy  of  distinction,  biit  they 
are  far  from  vague.  It  was  his  design  to  write 
prose  metaphysical  essays  on  the  nature  of  Man, 
which  would  have  ser\-ed  to  explain  much  of  what 
is  obscure  in  his  poetry ;  a  few  scattered  fragments 
of  observations  and  remarks  alone  remain.  He 
considered  these  philosophical  views  of  mind  and 
nature  to  be  instinct  with  the  intenscst  spirit  of 
poetry. 

More  popular  poets  clothe  the  ideal  with  familiar 
and  sensible  imagery.  Shelley  loved  to  idealize 
the  real-:-to  gift  the  mechanism  of  the  material 
universe  with  a  soul  and  a  voice,  and  to  bestow 
such  also  on  the  most  delicate  and  abstract  emotions 
and  thoughts  of  the  mind.  Sophocles  was  his 
great  master  in  this  species  of  imagery. 

I  find  in  one  of  his  manuscript  books  some 
remarks  on  a  line  in  the  CEdipus  Tyrannus,  which 
shows  at  once  the  critical  subtlety  of  Shelley's 
mind,  and  explains  his  ajjprehcnsion  of  those 
"  minute  and  remote  distinctions  of  feeling, 
whether  relative  to  external  nature  or  the  living 
beings  which  surround  us,"  which  he  pronounces, 
in  the  letter  quoted  in  the  note  to  the  Revolt  of 
Islam,  to  comprehend  all  tliat  is  sublime  in  man. 

"  In  the  Greek  Shakspe'arc,  Sophocles,  we  find 
the  image, 

rioXXuj  i'  bfois  tXOdvra  (ppovrtio;  rX  'iroij. 

A  line  bf  almost  unfathomable  depth  of  poetry, 
yet  how  simple  are  the  images  in  which  it  is 
arrayed, 

Comini;  to  many  ways   in   the  wanderings  of  careful 

thoiiglit. 
If  the  words  hM;  and  rrVnoa  had  not  beenused, 
the  line  might  have  been  explained  in  a  metapho- 


EDITOR'S.  NOTE  ON  PROMETHEUS  UNBOUND. 


149 


rical,  instead  of  an  absolute  sense,  as  wc  say '  ways 
and  means,'  and  wanderings,  for  error  and  con- 
fusion ;  but  they  meant  literally  paths  or  roads, 
such  as  we  tread  with  our  feet ;  and  wanderings, 
such  as  a  man  makes  when  he  loses  himself  in  a 
desert,  or  roams  from  city  to  city,  as  CEdipus,  the 
speaker  of  this  verse,  was  destined  to  wander,  blind 
and  asking  charity.  What  a  picture  docs  this  line 
suggest  of  the  mind  as  a  wilderness  of  intricate 
paths,  wide  as  the  universe,  which  is  here  made  its 
symbol,  a  world  within  a  world,  which  he,  who 
seeks  some  knowledge  with  respect  to  what  he 
ought  to  do,  searches  throughout,  as  he  would 
search  the  external  universe  for  some  valued  thing 
which  was  hidden  from  him  upon  its  surface." 

In  reading  Shelley's  poetry,  we  often  find  similar 
verses,  resembling,  but  not  imitating,  the  Greek 
in  this  species  of  imagery ;  for  though  he  adopted 
the  style,  he  gifted  it  with  that  originality  of  form 
and  colouring  which  sprung  from  his  own  genius. 

In  the  Prometheus  Unbound,  Shelley  fulfils  the 
promise  quoted  from  a  letter  in  the  Note  on  the 
Revolt  of  Islam.* 

The  tone  of  the  coraposition  is  calmer  and  more 
majestic,  the  poetry  more  perfect  as  a  whole,  and 
the  imagination  displayed  at  once  more  pleasingly 
beautiful  and  more  varied  and  daring.  The  de- 
scription of  the  Hours,  as  they  are  seen  in  the  cave 
of  Demogorgon,  is  an  instance  of  this — it  fills  the 
mind  as  the  most  charming  picture — we  long  to 
see  an  artist  at  work  to  bring  to  our  view  the 

cars  drawn  by  rainbow-winged  steeds, 
Wliich  trample  the  dim  winds  :  in  each  there  stands 
A  wild-eyed  charioteer,  urging  their  flight. 
Some  look  behind,  as  fiends  pursued  them  there, 
And  yet  I  see  no  shapes  hut  the  keen  stars  : 
Others,  with  burning  eyes,  lean  forth,  and  drink 

*  While  correcting  the  proof-sheets  of  that  Poem,  it 
struck  me  that  the  Poet  had  indulged  in  an  exaggerated 
view  of  the  evils  of  restored  despotism,  which,  however 
injurious  and  degrading,  were  less  openly  sanguinary 
than  the  triumph  of  anarchy,  such  as  it  appeared  in 
France  at  the  close  of  the  last  century.  But  at  this 
time  a  book,  "  Scenes  of  Spanish  Life,"  translated  by 
Lieutenant  Crawford  from  the  German  of  Dr.  Huber,of 
Rostock,  fell  into  my  hands.  The  account  of  the  tri- 
umph of  the  priests  and  the  serviles,  after  the  French 
invasion  of  Spain  in  ISi.'i,  bears  a  strong  and  frightful 
resemblance  to  some  of  the  descriptions  of  the  massacre 
of  the  patriots  in  the  Revolt  of  Islam. 


With  eager  lips  the  wind  of  their  own  speed. 

As  if  the  thing  they  loved  tied  on  before, 

And  now,  even  now,  they  clasped  it.    Their  bright  locks 

Stream  like  a  comet's  flashing  hair  :  they  all 

Sweep  onward. 

'i'lirougli  the  whole  Poem  there  reigns  a  sort 
of  calm  and  holy  spirit  of  love;  it  soothes  the 
tortured,  and  is  hope  to  the  expectant,  till  the 
prophecy  is  fulfilled,  and  Love,  untainted  by  any 
evil,  becomes  the  law  of  the  world. 

England  had  been  rendered  a  painful  residence 
to  Shelley,  as  much  l)y  the  sort  of  persecution  with 
which  iir  those  days  all  men  of  liberal  opinions 
were  visited,  and  by  the  injustice  he  had  lately 
endured  in  the  Court  of  Chancery,  as  by  the  symp- 
toms of  disease  which  made  him  regard  a  visit  to 
Italy  as  necessary  to  prolong  his  life.  An  exile, 
and  strongly  impressed  with  the  feeling  that  the 
majority  of  his  countrymen  regarded  him  with 
sentiments  of  aversion,  such  as  his  own  heart  could 
experience  towards  none,  he  sheltered  hiinself  fi"om 
such  disgusting  and  painful  thoughts  in  the  calm 
retreats  of  poetry,  and  built  up  a  world  of  liis  own, 
with  the  more  pleasure,  since  he  hoped  to  induce 
some  one  or  two  to  believe  that  the  earth  might 
become  such,  did  mankind  themselves  consent. 
The  charm  of  the  Roman  climate  helped  to  clothe 
his  thoughts  in  greater  beauty  than  they  had  ever 
worn  before.  And  as  he  wandered  among  the 
ruins,  made  one  with  nature  in  their  decay,  or 
gazed  on  the  Praxitelean  shapes  that  throng  the 
Vatican,  the  Capitol,  and  the  palaces  of  Rome,  his 
soul  imbibed  forms  of  loveliness  which  became  a 
portion  of  itself.  There  are  maiiy  passages  in  the 
"  Prometheus"  which  show  the  mtense  delight  he 
received  from  such  studies,  and  give  back  the  im- 
pression with  a  beauty  of  poetical  description 
peciiliarly  his  own.  He  felt  this,  as  a  poet  must 
feel  when  he  satisfies  himself  by  the  result  of  his 
labours,  and  he  wrote  from  Rome,  "  My  Prometheus 
Unbound  is  just  finished,  and  in  a  month  or  two 
I  shall  send  it.  It  is  a  drama,  with  characters 
and  mechanism  of  a  kind  yet  unattempted,  and  I 
think  the  execution  is  better  than  any  of  my  for- 
mer attempts." 

I  may  mention,  for  the  information  of  the  more 
critical  reader,  that  the  verbal  alterations  in  this 
edition  of  Prometheus  arc  made  from  a  list  of 
errata,  written  by  Shelley  himself. 


END  OF  PROMETHEUS  UNBOUND. 


n2 


THE  CENCi: 

^  iZTrngcbn. 

IN    FIVE    ACTS. 


DEDICATION. 


TO   LEIGH    HUNT,  ESQ. 

Mr  DEAR  FniExn, 

I  ixscniBE  with  your  name,  from  a  distant 
country,  and  after  an  absence  whose  months  have 
seemed  years,  this,  the  latest  of  my  Utcrary  efforts. 

Tliose  writings  which  I  have  hitherto  pubUshed, 
have  been  httle  else  than  \-isions  which  impersonate 
my  own  apprehensions  of  the  beautiful  and  the 
just.  I  can  also  perceive  in  them  the  Uterary  de- 
fects incidental  to  youth  and  impatience ;  they  are 
dreams  of  what  ought  to  be,  or  may  be.  The 
drama  which  I  now  present  to  you  is  a  sad  reality. 
I  lay  aside  the  presumptuous  attitude  of  an  in- 
structor, and  am  content  to  paint,  with  such  colours 
as  my  own  heart  furnishes,  that  which  has  been. 

Had  I  known  a  person  more  highly  endowed  than 
yourself  with  all  that  it  becomes  a  man  to  possess, 
I  had  soUcited  for  this  work  the  ornament  of  his 
name.  One  more  gentle,  honourable,  innocent 
and  brave;  one  of  more  exalted  toleration  for  all 
who  do  and  think  evil,  and  yet  himself  more  free 
from  evil ;  one  who  knows  better  how  to  receive, 
and  how  to  confer  a  benefit,  though  he  must  ever 
confer  far  more  than  he  can  receive;  one  of  simpler, 
and,  in  the  highest  sense  of  the  word,  of  purer  hfe 
and  manners,  I  never  knew;  I  had  already  been 
fortunate  in  friendships  when  your  name  was 
added  to  the  list. 

In  that  patient  and  irreconcilable  enmity  with 
domestic  and  political  tyranny  and  imposture  which 
the  tenor  of  your  life  has  illustrated,  and  which, 
had  I  health  and  talents,  should  illustrate  mine,  let 
us,  comforting  each  other  in  our  task,  live  and  die. 

All  happiness  attend  you  ! 

Your  affectionate  friend. 

PeIICY    B.  SllELLET, 

RnME,  Ma7j  20,  1S19. 

150  


PREFACE. 


A  MANUscniPT  was  rommiuiicated  to  mc  during 
my  travels  in  Italy,  which  was  copied  from  the  ar- 
chives of  the  Cenci  Palace  at  Rome,  and  contains 
a  detailed  account  of  the  horrors  which  ended  in 
the  extinction  of  one  of  the  noblest  and  richest 
families  of  that  city,  during  the  pontificate  of  Cle- 
ment VIII.,  in  the  year  1599.  The  storj'  is,  that 
an  old  man,  having  spent  his  life  in  debauchery 
and  wickedness,  conceived  at  length  an  implacable 
hatred  towards  his  children ;  which  showed  itself 
towards  one  daughter  under  the  form  of  an  inces- 
tuous passion,  aggravated  by  every  circumstance 
of  cruelty  and  violence.  This  daughter,  after  long 
and  vain  attempts  to  escape  from  what  she  con- 
sidered a  perpetual  contamination  both  of  body  and 
mind,  at  length  plotted  with  her  mother-in-law  and 
brother  to  murder  their  common  tyrant.  Tiic  young 
maiden,  who  was  urged  to  this  tremendous  deed 
by  an  impulse  which  overpowered  its  horror,  was 
e\'idently  a  most  gentle  and  amiable  being ;  a  crea- 
ture formed  to  adorn  and  be  admired,  and  thus 
violently  thwarted  from  her  nature  by  the  neces- 
sity of  circumstances  and  opinion.  The  deed  was 
quickly  discovered,  and  in  spite  of  the  most  earnest 
prayers  made  to  the  Pope  l)y  the  highest  persons 
in  Rome,  the  criminals  were  put  to  death.  The 
old  man  had,  during  his  life,  repeatedly  liought  his 
pardon  from  the  Poi)e  for  capiital  crimes  of  the  most 
enormous  and  unspeakable  kind,  at  the  price  of  a 
hundred  thousand  crowns;  the  death  therefore  of 
his  victims  can  scarcely  be  accounted  for  by  the 
love  of  justice.  The  Pope,  among  other  motives 
for  severity,  probably  felt  that  whoever  killed  the 
Count  Cenci  deprived  his  treasurj-  of  a  certidn  and 
copious  source  of  revenue.*  Such  a  storv',  if  told 
so  as  to  present  to  the  reader  all  the  feelings  of 
those  who  once  acted  it,  their  hopes  and  fears,  tlicir 
confidences  and  misgi^ings,  their  various  interests, 
passions,  and  0])ini()ns,  acting  upon  and  with  each 
other,  yet  all  conspiring  to  one  tremendous  end, 
would  be  as  a  light  to  make  apparent  some  of  the 
most  dark  and  secret  caverns  of  tiie  human  heart 

•  The  Papal  Government  formerly  took  the  most  ex- 
trannlinary  prncanlioiis  acaiiist  the  piibliiity  of  facts 
uliirhotferso  tragical  a  (Icmonslralinn  ofitsown  wick- 
ediifssaiid  weakness;  so  lliat  Die  comiininiration  of  the 
MS.  had  become,  until  very  lately,  a  matter  of  some 
(lifliculty. 


THE    CENCI. 


151 


On  my  arrival  at  Rome,  I  found  that  the  story 
of  tlic  Ccnci  was  a  subject  not  to  be  mentioned  in 
Italian  society,  without  awakening  a  deep  and 
breathless  interest;  and  that  the  feelings  of  the 
company  never  failed  to  incline  to  a  romantic  pity 
for  the  wrongs,  and  a  passionate  exculpation  of  the 
horrible  deed  to  which  they  urged  her,  who  has 
been  mingled  two  centuries  with  the  conmion  dust. 
All  ranks  of  people  knew  the  outlines  of  this  his- 
tory, and  participated  in  the  overwhelming  interest 
which  it  seems  to  have  the  magic  of  exciting  in  the 
human  heart.  I  had  a  copy  of  Guido's  picture  of 
Biiatricc,  which  is  preserved  ui  the  Colonna  Palace, 
and  my  servant  instantly  recognised  it  as  the  por- 
trait of  La  Cenci. 

This  national  and  universal  interest  wTiich  the 
story  produces  and  has  produced  for  two  centuries, 
and  among  all  ranks  of  people  in  a  great  city,  where 
the  imagination  is  kept  for  ever  active  and  awake, 
first  suggested  to  me  the  conception  of  its  fitness 
for  a  dramatic  purpose.  In  fact,  it  is  a  tragedy 
which  has  already  received,  from  its  capacity  of 
awakening  and  sustaining  the  sympathy  of  men, 
approbation  and  success.  Nothing  remained,  as  I 
imagined,  but  to  clothe  it  to  the  apprehensions  of 
my  countrymen  in  such  language  and  action  as 
would  bring  it  home  to  their  hearts.  The  deepest 
and  the  sublimest  tragic  compositions,  King  Lear, 
and  the  two  plays  in  which  the  tale  of  CEdipus  is 
told,  were  stories  which  already  existed  in  tradition, 
as  matters  of  popular  belief  and  interest,  before 
Shakspcare  and  Sophocles  made  them  familiar  to  the 
sympathy  of  all  succeeding  generations  of  mankind. 

This  story  of  the  Cenci  is  indeed  eminently 
fearful  and  monstrous:  any  thing  like  a  dry  exhibi- 
tion of  it  on  the  stage  would  he  insupportable.  The 
person  who  would  treat  such  a  subject  must  in- 
crease the  ideal,  and  diminish  the  actual  hoiTor  of 
the  events,  so  that  the  pleasure  which  arises  from 
the  poetry  which  exists  in  these  tempestuous  suf- 
ferings and  crimes,  may  mitigate  the  pain  of  the 
contemplation  of  the  moral  deformity  from  which 
they  spring.  There  must  also  be  nothing  attempted 
to  make  the  exhibition  subservient  to  what  is  vul- 
garly termed  a  moral  purpose.  The  highest  moral 
purpose  aimed  at  in  the  highest  species  of  the 
drama,  is  the  teaching  of  the  human  heart,  through 
its  sympathies  and  antipathies,  the  knowledge  of 
itself;  in  proportion  to  the  possession  of  which 
knowledge  every  human  being  is  wise,  just,  sin- 
cere, tolerant,  and  kind.  If  dogmas  can  do  more, 
it  is  well :  but  a  drama  is  no  tit  place  for  the  en- 
forcement of  them.  Undoubtedly  no  person  can 
be  truly  dishonoured  by  the  act  of  another:  and 
the  fit  return  to  make  to  the  most  enormous  in- 
juries is  kindness  and  forbearance,  and  a  resolution 
to  convert  the  injurer  from  his  dark  passions  by 
peace  and  love.  Revenge,  retaliation,  atonement, 
are  pernicious  mistakes.  If  Beatrice  had  thought 
in  this  manner,  she  would  have  been  wiser  and 
better;  but  she  would  never  have  been  a  tragic 
character :  the  few  whom  such  an  exhibition  would 
have  interested,  could  never  have  been  sufliciently 
interested  for  a  dramatic  purpose,  from  the  want 
of  finding  sympathy  in  their  interest  among  the 


mass  who  surround  iliem.  It  is  in  the  restless  and 
anatomizing  casuistry  with  which  men  seek  the 
justification  of  Ucatiice,  yet  feel  that  she  has  done 
what  needs  justification;  it  is  in  the  sujycrstitious 
honor  with  which  they  contemplate  alike  her 
wrongs  and  their  revenge,  that  the  dramatic 
character  of  what  slie  did  and  suffered  consists. 

I  have  endeavoured  as  nearly  as  possible  to  re- 
present the  characters  as  they  probably  were,  and 
have  sought  to  avoid  the  error  of  making  them  ac- 
tuated by  my  own  conceptions  of  right  or  wrong, 
false  or  true:  thus  under  a  thin  veil  converting 
names  and  actions  of  the  sixteenth  century  into 
cold  impersonations  of  my  own  mind.  They  are 
represented  as  Catholics,  and  as  Catholics  deeply 
tmgcd  with  religion.  To  a  Protestant  ap])rehen- 
sion  there  will  appear  something  unnatural  in  the 
earnest  and  peq)etual  sentiment  of  the  relations 
between  God  and  man  which  pervade  the  tragedy 
of  the  Cenci.  It  will  especially  be  startled  at  the 
combination  of  an  undoubting  persuasion  of  the 
truth  of  the  popuhir  religion,  with  a  cool  and  de- 
termined perseverance  in  enormous  guilt.  But  re- 
ligion in  Italy  is  not,  as  in  Protestant  countries,  a 
cloak  to  be  worn  on  particular  days;  or  a  passport 
which  those  who  do  not  wish  to  be  railed  at  carry 
with  them  to  exhibit;  or  a  gloomy  passion  for 
penetrating  the  impenetrable  mysteries  of  our  be- 
ing, which  terrifies  its  possessor  at  the  darkness  of 
the  abyss  to  the  brink  of  which  it  has  conducted 
him.  Religion  co-exists,  as  it  were,  in  the  mind 
of  an  Italian  Catholic  with  a  faith  in  that  of  which 
all  men  have  the  most  certain  knowledge.  It  is  in- 
tcnvovcn  with  the  whole  fiibric  of  life.  It  is  adora- 
tion, faith,  submission,  penitence,  blind  admiration ; 
not  a  rule  for  moral  conduct.  It  has  no  necessary 
connection  with  any  one  virtue.  The  most  atrocious 
villain  may  be  rigidly  devout,  and,  without  any 
shock  to  establish  faith,  confess  himself  to  be  so. 
Religion  pervades  intensely  the  whole  fiame  of 
society,  and  is,  according  to  the  temper  of  the  mind 
which  it  inhabits,  a  passion,  a  persuasion,  an  ex- 
cuse, a  refuge ;  never  a  check.  Cenci  himself 
built  a  chapel  in  the  court  of  his  palace,  and  dedi- 
cated it  .to  St.  Thomas  the  Apostle,  and  established 
masses  for  the  peace  of  his  soul.  Thus  in  the  first 
scene  of  the  fourth  act,  Lucretia's  design  in  expos- 
ing herself  to  the  consequences  of  an  expostulation 
with  Ccnci  after  having  administered  the  opiate, 
was  to  induce  him  by  a  feigned  tale  to  confess  him- 
self before  death  ;  this  being  esteemed  bj-  CathoUcs 
as  essential  to  salvation  ;  and  she  only  relinquishes 
her  purpose  when  she  perceives  that  her  perse- 
verance would  expose  Beatrice  to  new  outrages. 

I  have  avoided  with  great  care  in  writing  this 
play  the  introduction  of  what  is  commonly  called 
mere  poetry,  and  I  imagine  there  will  scarcely  be 
found  a  detached  simile  or  a  single  isolated  descrip- 
tion, unless  Beatrice's  description  of  the  chasm  ap- 
pointed for  her  father's  murder  should  be  judged 
to  be  of  that  nature.* 


*  An  idea  in  this  speech  was  siismested  by  a  most  siib- 
lifiie  passage  in  "El  Purgatnrio  de  .San  Patiicio,"  of 
Calderon  :  the  only  pla!;i;irisni  whicli  I  have  intention- 
ally committed  in  the  whole  piece. 


152 


THE    CENCI. 


In  a  dramatic  composition  the  imaffcn'  and  the 
passion  should  interpenetrate  one  anotlier,  the  for- 
mer heinp  reserved  simply  for  the  full  developement 
and  illustration  of  tlie  latter.  Imau^inatiori  is  as 
the  immortal  God  which  should  assume  flesh  for  the 
redemption  of  mortal  passion.  It  is  thus  that  the 
most  remote  and  tlie  most  familiar  imagery  may 
alike  be  fit  for  dramatic  jiurposes  when  employed 
in  the  illustration  of  strong  foeliiig,  which  raises 
what  is  low,  and  levels  to  the  ajiprehension  that 
which  is  lofty,  casting  over  all  tlie  shadow  of  its 
own  greatness.  In  other  respects  I  have  written 
more  carelessly;  that  is,  without  an  overfastidious 
and  learned  choice  of^words.  In  this  respect,  I 
entirely  agree  with  those  modern  critics  who  assert, 
that  in  order  to  move  men  to  true  sympathy  we 
must  use  the  familiar  language  of  men;  and  that 
our  great  ancestors,  the  ancient  English  poets,  are 
the  writers,  a  study  of  whom  might  incite  us  to  do 
that  for  our  own  age  which  they  have  done  for 
theirs.  But  it  must  be  the  real  language  of  men 
in  general,  and  not  that  of  any  particular  class,  to 
whose  society  the  writer  happens  to  belong.  So 
much  for  what  I  have  attempted :  I  need  not  be 
assured  that  success  is  a  very  different  matter;  par- 
ticularly for  one  whose  attention  has  but  newly 
been  awakened  to  the  study  of  dramatic  literature. 

I  endeavoured  wliilst  at  Rome  to  observe  such 
monuments  of  this  stoiy  as  might  be  accessible  to 
a  stranger.  The  portrait  of  Beatrice  at  the  Co- 
lonna  Palace  is  most  admirable  as  a  work  of  art : 
it  was  taken  by  Guido  during  her  confinement  in 
prison.  But  it  is  most  interesting  as  a  just  repre- 
sentation of  one  of  the  loveliest  specimens  of  the 
workmanship  of  Nature.  There  is  a  fixed  and 
pale  composure  upon  the  features :  she  seems  sad 
and  stricken  down  in  spirit,  yet  the  despair  thus 
expressed  is  lightened  by  tlie  patience  of  gentle- 
ness. Her  head  is  bound  with  folds  of  white 
drapery,  from  which  the  yellow  strings  of  her 
golden  hair  escape  and  full  about  her  neck.     The 


moulding  of  her  face  is  exquisitely  delicate ;  the 
eyebrows  are  distinct  and  archeil ;  the  lips  have 
that  permanent  meaning  of  imagination  and  sensi- 
bility which  sulleriiig  has  not  repressed,  and  which 
it  seems  as  if  death  scarcely  could  extinguish.  Her 
forehead  is  large  and  clear ;  her  eyes,  which  we 
are  told  were  remarkable  for  their  vivacity,  are 
swollen  with  wee|iing  and  lustreless,  but  beauti- 
flilly  tender  and  serene.  In  the  whole  mien  there 
is  a  simplicity  and  dignity  which,  united  with  her 
exquisite  loveliness  and  deep  sorrow,  are  inexpres- 
sibly pathetic.  Beatrice  Cenci  appears  to  have 
been  one  of  those  rare  persons  in  whom  energy 
and  gentleness  dwell  together  without  destroving 
one  another:  her  nature  was  simple  and  prol'ound. 
The  crimes  and  miseries  in  which  she  was  an  actor 
and  a  sufferer,  are  as  the  mask  and  the  mantle  in 
which  circumstances  clothed  her  for  her  impersona- 
tion on  the  scene  of  the  world. 

The  Cenci  Palace  is  of  great  extent;  and, 
though  in  part  modernized,  there  yet  remains  a 
vast  and  gloomy  pile  of  feudal  architecture  in  the 
same  state  as  during  the  dreadful  scenes  which  are 
the  subject  of  this  tragedy.  'I'he  palace  is  situated 
in  an  obscure  corner  of  Koine,  near  the  quarter  of 
the  Jews,  and  from  the  upper  windows  you  see 
the  immense  ruins  of  Mount  Palatine  half  hidden 
under  their  profuse  overgrowth  of  trees.  There  is 
a  court  in  one  part  of  the  palace  (perhaps  that  in 
wliich  Cenci  built  the  chapel  to  St.  Thomas,)  sup- 
ported by  granite  columns  and  adorned  with  an- 
tique friezes  of  fine  Workmanship,  and  built  up, 
according  to  the  ancient  Italian  fashion,  with  bal- 
cony over  balcony  of  open  work.  One  of  the 
gates  of  the  palace,  formed  of  immense  stones,  and 
leading  through  a  passage  dark  and  lofty,  and 
opening  info  gloomy  subterranean  chambers,  struck 
me  particularly. 

Of  the  Castle  of  Petrella,  I  could  obtain  no  fur- 
ther information  than  that  which  is  to  be  found  in 
the  manuscript 


THE    CENCI. 


]53 


DRAMATIS  PERSON-E. 


Count  Francesco  Cenci. 

GlACOMO, 
BtCUXAIlBO, 

Caudixal  Camillo. 


his  Sons. 


Orsino,  a  Prelate. 
Savklla,  the  Pope's  legate. 


Ol-IMI'IO, 

Marzio, 


Assassins. 


Andrea,  Servant  to  Cenci. 
Nobles,  Judges,  Guards,  Servants. 


LrcRETTA,  Wife  o/"  Cenci,  and  step-mother  of  his  children. 
Beatrice,  his  Daughter. 

The  ScEXE  lies  principally  in  Rome,  but  chann-cs  during  the  Fourth  Act  to  Petrella,  a  Castle  among  the 

Jlliulian  Apennines. 
Time.— During  the  Ponlificate  of  Clement  VIII. 


ACT  I. 


SCENE  I. 

An  Apartment  in  the  Cenci  Palace. 
Enter  Count  Cenci  and  Cardinal  Camillo. 

CAMILLO. 

That  matter  of  the  murder  is  hushed  up 

If  you  consent  to  yield  his  Holiness 

Your  fief  that  hes  beyond  the  Pincian  gate. — • 

It  needed  all  my  interest  in  the  conclave 

To  bend  him  to  this  point :  he  said  that  you 

Bought  pexilous  impunity  with  your  gold ; 

That  crimes  like  yours  if  once  or  twice  compounded 

Enriched  the  Church,  and  respited  from  hell 

An  erring  soul  which  might  repent  and  live : 

But  that  the  glory  and  the  interest 

Of  the  high  throne  he  fills,  little  consist 

With  making  it  a  daily  mart  of  guilt 

So  manifold  and  hideous  as  the  deeds 

Which  you  scarce  hide  from  men's  revolted  eyes. 

CENCI. 

The  third  of  my  possessions — let  it  go  ! 
Ay,  I  once  heard  the  nephew  of  the  Pope 
Had  sent  his  architect  to  view  the  ground. 
Meaning  to  build  a  villa  on  my  vines 
The  next  time  I  compounded  with  his  uncle : 
I  little  thought  he  should  outwit  me  so ! 
Henceforth  no  witness — not  the  lamp — shall  see 
That  which  the  vassal  threatened  to  divulge, 
Whose  throat  is  choked  with  dust  for  his  reward. 
The  deed  he  saw  could  not  have  rated  higher 
Than  his  most  worthless  life: — it  angers  me! 
Respited  from  Hell ! — So  may  the  Denl 
Respite  their  souls  from  Heaven.     No  doubt  Pope 
And  his  most  charitable  nephews,  pray   [Clement, 
That  the  Apostle  Poter  and  the  saints 
Will  grant  for  their  sake  that  I  long  enjoy 
.  Strength,  wealth,  and  pride,  and  lust,  and  length 

of  days 
Wherein  to  act  the  deeds  vs'hich  are  the  .stewards 
Of  their  revenue. — But  much  yet  remains 
To  which  they  show  no  title. 
20 


Oh,  Count  Cenci ! 
So  much  that  thou  might'st  honourably  live, 
x\nd  reconcile  thyself  with  thine  own  heart 
And  with  thy  God,  and  with  the  offended  world. 
How  hideously  look  deeds  of  lust  and  blood 
Through  those  snow-white  and  venerable  hairs ! 
Your  children  should  be  sitting  round  you  now, 
But  that  you  fear  to  read  upon  their  looks 
The  shame  and  misery  you  have  written  there. 
Where   is   your  wife  1    Where   is   your    gentle 

daughter  1 
Methinks  her  sweet  looks,  which  make  all  things 

else 
Beauteous  and  glad,  might  kill  the  fiend  within  you. 
Whv  is  she  barred  from  all  society 
But  her  owii  strange  and  uncomplaining  wrongs'? 
^Talk  with  me,  Count,  you  know  I  mean  you  well. 
I  stood  beside  your  dark  and  fiery  youth. 
Watching  its  bold  and  bad  career,  as  men 
Watch  meteors,  but  it  vanished  not — I  marked 
Your  desperate  and  remorseless  manhood ;  now 
Do  I  behold  you,  in  dishonoured  age. 
Charged  with  a  thousand  unrepented  crimes. 
Yet  I  have  ever  hoped  you  would  amend. 
And  in  that  hope  have  saved  your  life  three  times. 

CENCI. 

For  which  Aldobrandino  owes  you  now 
My  fief  beyond  the  Pincian — Cardinal, 
One  thing,  I  pray  you,  recollect  henceforth, 
And  so  we  shall  converse  with  less  restraint. 
A  man  you  knew  spoke  of  my  wife  and  daughter, 
He  was  accustomed  to  frequent  my  house ; 
So  the  next  day  his  wife  and  daughter  came 
And  asked  if  I  had  seen  him ;  and  I  smiled  : 
I  think  they  never  saw  him  any  more. 

CAMILLO. 

Thou  execrable  man,  beware  ! — 

CENCI. 

Of  thee  ? 


154 


THE    CENCI. 


Nay,  this  is  idle : — \Vc  should  know  each  other. 

As  to  my  character  for  wliat  inon  call  crime, 

Soeiiiij  I  please  my  senses  iis  I  list. 

And  vindicate  that  right  wiih  force  or  guile, 

It  is  a  public  matter,  and  I  care  not 

If  I  discuss  it  with  you.     I  may  speak 

Alike  to  you  and  my  own  conscious  heart; 

For  you  give  out  that  you  have  half  reformed  me, 

Therefore  strong  vanity  will  keep  you  silent 

If  fear  should  not ;  both  will,  I  do  not  doubt. 

All  men  delight  in  sensual  luxury, 

All  men  enjoy  revenge;  and  most  exult 

Over  the  tortures  they  can  never  feel ; 

Flattering  tlicir  secret  peace  with  others'  pain. 

But  I  delight  in  nothing  else.     I  love 

The  sight  of  agony,  and  the  sense  of  joy, 

When  this  shall  be  another's,  and  that  mine. 

And  I  have  no  remorse,  and  little  fear. 

Which  are,  I  think,  the  checks  of  other  men. 

This  mood  has  grown  upon  me,  until  now 

Any  design  my  captious  fancy  makes 

The  picture  of  its  wish,  and  it  forms  none 

But  such  as  men  like  you  would  start  to  know, 

Is  as  my  natural  food  and  rest  debarred 

Until  it  be  accomplished. 

CAMILLO. 

Art  thou  not 
Most  miserable ! 

Why  miserable? — 
No.     I  am  what  your  theologians  call 
Hardened ;  which  they  must  be  in  impudence, 
So  to  revile  a  man's  peculiar  taste. 
True,  I  was  happier  than  I  am,  while  yet 
Manhood  rem:uned  to  act  the  thing  I  thought ; 
While  lust  was  sweeter  than  revenge ;  and  now 
Invention  palls;  ay,  we  must  all  grow  old: 
But  that  there  yet  remains  a  deed  to  act 
Whose  horror  might  make  sharp  an  appetite 
Duller  than  mine — I'd  do, — I  know  not  what. 
When  I  was  voung  I  thought  of  nothing  else 
But  pleasure;  and  I  fed  on  honey  sweets: 
Men,  by  St.  Thomas!  cannot  live  like  bees, 
And  I  grew  tired :  yet,  till  I  killed  a  foe,    [groans, 
And  heard  his  groans,  and  heard  his  children's 
Knew  I  not  what  delight  was  else  on  earth. 
Which  now  delights  me  little.     I  the  rather 
Look  on  such  pangs  as  terror  ill  conceals ; 
The  dry,  fixed  eyeball;  the  pale,  quivering  lip, 
Which  tell  me  tliat  the  sjjirit  weeps  within 
Tears  bitterer  than  the  bloody  sweat  of  Christ. 
I  rarely  kill  the  body,  whirh  jjreservcs. 
Like  a  strong  ])rison,  the  soul  within  my  power, 
Wherein  I  feed  it  with  the  breath  of  fear 
For  hourly  pain. 

CAmlLLO, 

Hell's  most  abandoned  fiend 
Did  never,  in  the  drunkenness  of  guilt. 
Speak  to  his  heart  as  now  you  speak  to  me ; 
I  thank  my  God  that  I  beUeve  you  not. 

Enter  AsnnEA. 

AXIIIIKA. 

My  liOrd.  a  gentlennn  from  Salamanca 
Would  speak  with  you. 


CEXCI. 

Bid  him  attend  me  in  the  grand  saloon. 

[Exit  Andrea. 

CAMILLO. 

Farewell ;  and  I  will  pray 

Ahnighty  God  that  thy  false,  impious  words 

Tempt  not  his  spirit  to  abandon  thee. 

[Exit  Cam  I  LLC. 
CZXCI. 

The  third  of  my  possessions !  I  must  use 
Close  husbandry,  or  gold,  the  old  man's  sword, 
Falls  from  my  withered  hand.     But  yesterday 
There  came  an  order  from  the  Pope  to  make 
Fourfold  provision  for  my  cursed  sons ; 
Whom  I  have  sent  from  Rome  to  Salamanca, 
Hoping  some  accident  might  cut  them  off; 
And  meaning,  if  I  could,  to  starve  them  there. 
I  pray  thee,  God,  send  some  quick  death   upon 

them  ! 
Bernardo  and  my  wife  could  not  be  worse 
If  dead  and  damned  : — then,  as  to  Beatrice — 

[Looking  around  him  suspiciously. 
I  think  tliey  cannot  hear  me  at  that  door; 
What  if  they  should  ?    And  yet  I  need  not  speak, 
Though  the  heart  tnumphs  with  itself  in  words. 
O.  thou  most  silent  air,  that  shall  not  hear 
What  now  I  think  !  Thou,  pavement,  whi<-h  I  tread 
Towards  her  chamber, — let  your  echoes  talk 
Of  my  ini])erious  step,  scorning  surprise, 
But  not  of  my  intent ! — Andrea  ! 

Enter  Andrea. 

ASUIIEA. 

My  lord ! 

CENCI. 

Bid  Beatrice  attend  mc  in  her  chamber 
This  evening : — no,  at  midnight,  and  alone. 

[Exeunt, 


SCENE  IL 

^  Oarden  of  the  Cenci  Palace. 

Enter  Beatiiice  and  Orsino,  as  in  conversation. 

BEATnlCK. 

Pei-vcrt  not  truth, 

Orsino.     You  remember  where  we  held 

That  conversation  ; — nay,  we  see  the  spot 

Even  from  this  cypress; — two  long  years  are  past 

Since,  on  an  April  midnight,  underneath 

The  moonlight  ruins  of  Mount  Palatine, 

I  did  confess  to  yon  my  secret  mind. 

onsixo. 
You  said  vou  loved  mc  then. 


liKATUlCE. 


Speak  to  me  not  of  love. 


Vou  are  a  priest ; 


OUSINO. 

I  mav  obtain 


The  dispensation  of  the  Pope  to  marry. 
Because  I  am  a  priest,  do  you  believe 
Your  image,  as  the  hunter  some  struck  deer, 
Follows  me  not  whether  I  wake  or  sleep  1 


THE    CENCI. 


ir.5 


BEATRICE. 

As  I  have  said,  speak  to  me  not  of  love ; 

Had  you  a  disppiisation,  I  have  not ; 

Nor  will  I  leave  this  home  of  misery 

Whilst  my  poor  Bernard,  and  that  gentle  lady 

To  whom  I  owe  life,  and  these  virtuous  thoughts, 

Must  suffer  what  I  still  have  strength  to  share. 

Alas,  Orsii\o !    All  the  love  that  once 

I  felt  for  you,  is  turned  to  hitter  j)ain. 

Ours  was  a  youthful  contract,  which  you  first 

Broke,  by  assuming  vows  no  Pojic  will  loose. 

And  thus  I  love  you  still,  hut  holily, 

Even  as  a  sister  or  a  spirit  might ; 

And  so  I  swear  a  cold  fidelity. 

And  it  is  well  perhaps  we  shall  not  inarry. 

You  have  a  sly,  equivocating  vein 

That  suits  mc  not. — Ah,  wretched  that  I  am ! 

Where  shall  I  turni     Even  now  you  look  on  me 

As  you  were  not  my  friend,  and  as  if  you 

Discovered  that  I  thought  so,  with  false  smiles 

Making  my  true  suspicion  seem  your  wrong. 

Ah  !    No,  forgive  mc ;  soitow  makes  me  seem 

Sterner  than  else  my  nature  might  have  heen ; 

I  have  a  weight  of  melancholy  thoughts, 

And  they  forebode, — but  what  can  they  forebode 

Worse  than  I  now  endure  1 


All  will  he  well. 
Is  the  petition  yet  prepared  1     You  know 
My  zeal  for  all  you  wish,  sweet  Beatrice  ; 
Doubt  not  but  I  will  use  my  utmost  skill 
So  that  the  Pope  attend  to  your  complaint. 

BEATRICE. 

Your  zeal  for  all  I  wish  1 — Ah  me,  you  are  cold ! 
Your  utmost  skill — speak  but  one  word — ■ 

(Aside.)     Alas ! 
Weak  and  deserted  creature  that  I  am. 
Here  I  stand  bickering  with  my  only  friend ! 

(To  Orsixo.) 
This  night  my  father  gives  a  sumptuous  feast, 
Orsino ;  he  has  heard  some  happy  news 
From  Salamanca,  from  my  brothers  there, 
And  with  this  outward  show  of  love  he  mocks 
His  inward  hate.     'Tis  bold  hypocrisy. 
For  he  would  gladlier  celebrate  their  deaths, 
Wliich  I  have  heard  him  pray  for  on  his  knees : 
Great  God !  that  such  a  father  should  be  mine  ! — 
But  there  is  mighty  preparation  made. 
And  all  our  kin,  the  Ccnci,  will  be  there, 
And  all  the  chief  nobility  of  Rome. 
And  he  has  bidden  me  and  my  pale  mother 
Attire  ourselves  in  festival  array. 
Poor  lady  !    She  expects  some  happy  change 
In  his  dark  spirit  from  this  act ;  I  none. 
At  supper  I  will  give  you  the  petition : 
Till  when — farewell. 

onsiNo. 

Farewell. 

[F.iit.  Beatrice. 
I  know  the  Pope 
Will  ne'er  absolve  me  from  my  priestly  vow 
But  by  absolving  me  from  the  revenue 
Of  many  a  wealthy  sec ;  and,  Beatrice, 


I  think  to  w-in  thee  at  an  easier  rate. 
Nor  shall  he  read  her  eloquent  pelilion  : 
He  might  bestow  her  on  some  poor  relation 
Of  hi-!  sixth-cousin,  as  he  did  her  sister. 
And  1  shall  bo  debarred  from  all  access. 
Then  as  to  what  she  suffers  from  her  father, 
In  all  this  there  is  much  exaggeration  : 
Old  men  are  testy,  and  will  have  their  way; 
A  man  may  stab  his  enemy,  or  his  vassal, 
And  live  a  free  life  as  to  wine  or  women. 
And  with  a  peevish  temper  may  return 
To  a  dull  home,  and  rate  his  wife  and  children; 
Daughters  and  wives  call  this  foul  tyranny. 
I  shall  be  well  content,  if  on  my  conscience 
There  rest  no  heavier  sin  than  what  they  suffer 
From  the  devices  of  my  love — A  net 
From  which  she  shall  escape  not.     Yet  I  fear 
Her  subtle  mind,  her  awe-in.spiring  gaze, 
Whose  beams  anatomize  me,  nerve  by  nerve. 
And  lay  me  bare,  and  make  me  blush  to  see 
My  hidden  thoughts. — Ah,  no !  a  friendless  girl 
Who  clings  to  me,  as  to  her  only  hope : — 
I  were  a  fool,  not  less  than  if  a  panther 
Were  panic-stricken  by  the  antelope's  eye. 
If  she  escape  me. 

lEzit. 


SCENE  III. 

.4  mairnijicent  Hall  in  the  Cenci  Palace. 

A  Banquet.     Enter  Cenci,  Lucretia,  Beatrice, 
Orsino,  Camillo,  Nobles. 

CENCI. 

Welcome,  my  friends  and  kinsmen ;  welcome  ye, 

Princes  and  Cardinals,  Pillars  of  the  church, 

Who.se  presence  honours  our  festivity. 

I  have  too  long  lived  like  an  anchorite, 

And,  in  my  absence  from  your  merry  meetings, 

An  evil  word  is  gone  abroad  of  me ; 

But  I  do  hope  that  you,  my  noble  friends. 

When  you  have  shared  the  entertainment  here, 

And  heard  the  pious  cause  for  which  'tis  given. 

And  we  have  pledged  a  health  or  two  together. 

Will  think  me  flesh  and  blood  as  well  as  you ; 

Sinful  indeed,  for  Adam  made  all  so, 

But  tcndcr-heai'ted,  meek  and  pitiful. 

FIRST    GUEST. 

In  truth,  my  lord,  you  seem  too  light  of  heart, 
Too  sprightly  and  companionable  a  man, 
.To  act  the  deeds  that  rumour  pins  on  you. 

[To  his  companion. 
I  never  saw  such  blithe  and  open  cheer 
In  any  eye ! 

SECOND    GUEST. 

Some  most  desired  event. 
In  wdiich  we  all  demand  a  common  joy. 
Has  brought  us  hither  ;  let  us  hear  it,  Count. 

CENCI. 

It  is  indeed  a  most  desired  event. 
If  when  a  parent,  from  a  parent's  heart, 
Lifts  from  this  earth  to  the  great  Father  of  all 
A  prayer,  both  when  he  lays  him  down  to  sleep, 


156 


THE    CENCI. 


Ami  when  he  rises  up  from  drcaniiiiR  it; 
One  siii)i>lication,  one  desire,  one  luii>c, 
That  he  would  grant  a  wish  for  his  two  sons, 
Even  all  that  he  demands  in  their  regard — 
And  suddenly,  beyond  his  dearest  hope. 
It  is  accomplished,  he  sluiuld  then  rejoice, 
And  call  his  friends  and  kinsmen  to  a  feast, 
And  task  their  love  to  grace  his  merriment, 
Then  honour  me  thus  far — for  I  am  he. 

BKATIIICK   (/o  LlCUKTIA.) 

Great  God !    How  horrihlc  !    Some  dreadful  ill 
Must  have  befallen  my  brothers. 

LUCKETIA. 

Fear  not,  child. 
He  speaks  too  frankly. 

BEATniCF.. 

Ah !    My  blood  runs  cold. 
I  fear  that  wicked  laughter  round  his  eye, 
Which  wrinkles  up  the  skin  even  to  the  hair. 

CEXCI. 

Here  arc  the  letters  brought  from  Salamanca ; 

Beatrice,  read  them  (o  your  mother.     God, 

I  thank  thee !    In  one  night  didst  thou  perform. 

By  ways  inscrutable,  the  thing  I  sought. 

My  disobedient  and  rebellious  sons 

Are  dead  ! — Why  dead  ! — What  means  this  change 

of  cheer  1 
You  hear  me  not,  I  tell  you  they  are  dead ; 
And  they  will  need  no  food  or  raiment  more : 
The  tapers  that  did  light  them  the  dark  ways 
Are  their  last  cost.     The  Pope,  I  think,  will  not 
Expect  I  should  maintain  them  in  their  coffins. 
Rejoice  with  me — my  heart  is  wondrous  glad. 

BEATRICE.     (LuciiKTiA  sin/cs,  hcilf  faiiitinir  ; 
Beatuice  supports  her.) 
It  is  not  true  ! — Dear  lady,  pray  look  up. 
Had  it  been  true,  there  is  a  God  in  Heaven, 
He  would  not  live  to  boast  of  such  a  boon. 
Unnatural  man,  thou  knowest  that  it  is  false. 

cevci. 
Ay,  as  the  word  of  God ;  whom  here  I  call 
To  wtness  that  I  speak  the  sober  truth ; — 
And  whoso  most  favouring  providence  was  shown 
Even  in  the  manner  of  their  deaths.     For  Rocco 
Was  kneeling  at  the  mass,  with  sixteen  others. 
When  the  Church  fell  and  crushed  him  to  a  mummy ; 
The  rest  escaped  unhurt.     Cristofano 
Was  stabbed  in  error  by  a  jealous  man, 
Whilst  she  he  loved  was  sleeping  with  his  rival ; 
All  in  the  self-same  hour  of  the  same  night; 
Which  shows  that  Heaven  has  special  care  of  me. 
I  beg  those  friends  who  love  me,  that  they  mark 
The  day  a  feast  upon  their  calendars. 
It  was  the  twenty-sevenlli  of  December  : 
Ay,  read  the  lelUirs  if  you  doubt  my  oath. 

[The  assembly  appear  confused  ;  several  of  the 
ffuenls  rise. 

FIRST    KUEST. 

Oh,  horrible  !    I  will  depart — 


SECO.^U    GfEST. 


And  I.— 


THIRD    GUEST. 

No,  stay ! 
I  do  believe  it  is  some  jest ;  though  faith, 
"J'is  mocking  us  somewhat  too  solemnly. 
I  think- his  son  has  married  the  Infanta, 
Or  found  a  mine  of  gold  in  El  Dorado: 
'Tis  but  to  season  some  such  news ;  stay,  stay  ! 
I  see  'tis  only  raillery  by  his  smile. 

CEXCI  (^filling  a  bowl  i>f  wine,  and  I'Jfing  if  up.") 

Oh,  thou  bright  wine,  whose  purple  splendour  leaps 

And  bubbles  gayly  in  this  golden  bowl 

Under  the  laini)light,  as  my  spirits  do. 

To  hear  the  death  of  my  accursed  sons  ! 

Could  I  believe  thou  wert  their  mingled  blood, 

Then  would  I  taste  thee  like  a  sacrament, 

And  pledge  with  thee  the  mighty  Devil  in  Hell; 

Who,  if  a  father's  curses,  as  men  say. 

Climb  with  swift  wings  after  their  children's  souls. 

And  drag  them  from  the  verj-  throne  of  Heaven, 

Psow  triumphs  in  my  triumph! — But  thou  art 

Sujierfluous;  I  have  drunken  deep  of  joy, 

And  I  will  taste  no  other  wine  to-night. 

Here,  Andrea !    Bear  the  bowl  around. 

A  GUEST  prising.) 

Thou  wretch ! 
Will  none  among  this  noble  company 
Check  the  abandoned  villain  ] 

CA9IILL0. 

For  God's  sake. 
Let  me  dismiss  the  guests!    You  are  insane, 
Some  ill  will  come  of  this. 

SECOND    GUEST. 

Seize,  silence  him ! 

FIRST    GUEST. 

I  will ! 

THIRD    GUEST. 

And  I ! 

CEXCI  (addressing  those  who  rise  with  a  threaten- 
ing gesture.) 
Who  moves  1  Who  speaks  1 

ITurninr  to  the  Company. 
'Tis  nothing. 
Enjoy  yourselves. — Beware !  for  my  revenge 
Is  as  the  sealed  commission  of  a  king, 
That  kills,  and  none  dare  name  the  murderer. 

[The  Banijuet  is  broken  up;  several  of  the    Guests 
are  departing'. 

BEATRICE. 

I  do  entreat  you,  go  not,  noble  guests ; 
What  although  tyranny  and  impious  hate 
Stand  sheltered  l)y  a  father's  hoary  hair] 
What  if  'tis  he  who  clothed  us  in  these  limbs 
Who  tortures  them,  and  triumphs  7    What,  if  we, 
The  desolate  and  the  dead,  were  his  own  flesh. 
His  children  and  his  wife,  whom  he  is  bound 
To  love  and  shelter  1     Shall  we  therefore  And 
No  refuge  in  this  merciless  wide  world  1 
Oh,  think  what  deep  wrongs  must  have  blotted  out 
First  love,  then  reverence  in  a  child's  prone  rnind, 
Till  it  thus  vanquished  shame  and  fear!  Oh,  think! 
I  have  borne  much,  and  kissed  the  sacred  liand 


THE    CENCI. 


157 


Which  crushed  us   to   the  cartli,  ami    thought  its 

stroke 
Was  perhaps  some  paternal  chastisement ! 
Have  excused  much,  douhtcd  ;  ami  when  no  douht 
Remained,  have  souglit  by  patience,  love  and  tears, 
To  soften  him ;  and  when  this  could  not  bo, 
I  have  knelt  down  through  the  long  sleepless  nights. 
And  lifted  up  to  God,  the  father  of  all, 
Passionate  prayers :  and  when  these  were  not  heard, 
I  .have  still  borne  ; — until  I  meet  you  here, 
Princes  and  kinsmen,  at  this  hideous  feast 
Given  at  my  brother's  death.     Two  yet  remain. 
His  wife  remains  and  I,  whom  if  ye  save  not, 
Ye  may  sOon  share  sych  merriment  again 
As  fathers  make  over  their  children's  graves. 
Oh!   Prince  Colonna.  thou  art  our  near  kinsman; 
Cardinal,  thou  art  the  Pope's  chamberlain ; 
Camillo,  thou  art  chief  justiciar}'; 
Take  us  away! 

CENCI  (He  has  been  conversing  ivith  camillo 
during  the  Jirst  part  of  Beatrice's  speech; 
he  hears  the  conclusion  and  now  advances^ 

I  hope  my  good  friends  here 
Will  think  of  their  own  daughters — or  perhaps 
Of  their  own  throats — before  they  lend  an  ear 
To  tliis  wild  girl. 

BEATRICE  {not  uoticing  the  ivords  of  C^yci.) 
Dare  no  one  look  on  me  1 
None  answer  ]     Can  one  tj'rant  overbear 
The  sense  of  many  best  and  wisest  men  1 
Or  is  it  that  I  sue  not  in  some  form 
Of  scrupulous  law,  that  ye  deny  my  suit  ] 
Oh,  God  !  that  I  were  buried  with  my  brothers ! 
And  that  the  flowers  of  this  departed  spring 
Were  fading  on  my  grave  !  And  that  my  father 
Were  celebrating  now  one  feast  for  all ! 


A  bitter  wish  for  one  so.  young  and  gentle  1 
Can  we  do  nothing? — 

COLOXXA. 

iVothing  that  I  see. 
Count  Cenci  were  a  dangerous  enemy : 
Yet  I  would  second  any  one. 

A    CARDINAL. 

And  I. 


CENCI. 

Petire  to  your  chamberj  insolent  girl ! 

BEATRICE. 

Retire  thou,  impious  man  !   Ay,  hide  thyself 
Where  never  eye  can  look  upon  thee  more ! 
Wouldst  thou  have  honour  and  obedience, 
Wlio  art  a  torturer"!   Father,  never  dream. 
Though  thou  mayst  overbear  this  company. 

But  ill  must  come  of  ill Frown  not  on  me ! 

Haste,  hide  thyself,  lest  with  avenging  looks 
My  brothers'  ghosts  should  hunt  thee  from  thy  seat! 
Cover  thy  face  from  every  living  eye, 
And  start  if  thou  but  hear  a  human  step  : 
8eek  out  some  dark  and  silent  corner,  there, 
Bow  thy  white  liead  before  olfended  God, 
And  we  will  kneel  around,  and  fervently 
Pray  that  he  pity  both  ourselves  and  thee. 


My  friends,  I  do  lament  this  insane  girl 

Has  spoilt  the  mirth  of  our  festivity. 

Good  night,  farewell ;  I  will  not  make  you  longer 

Spectators  of  our  dull  domestic  quarrels. 

Another  time. — 

IKxeunt  all  but  Cenci  and  Beatrice. 
My  brain  is  swimming  round ; 
Give  me  a  bowl  of  wine  ! 

(To  Beatrice.)  Thou  painted  viper! 
Beast  that  thou  art !  Fair  and  yet  temble  ! 
I  know  a  charm  shall  make  thee  meek  and  tame, 
Now  get  thee  from  my  sight ! 

[Exit  Beatrice. 
Here,  Andrea, 
Fill  up  this  goblet  with  Greek  wine.     I  said 
I  would  not  drink  this  evening,  but  I  must ; 
For  strange  to  say,  I  feel  my  spirits  fail 
With  thinking  what  I  have  decreed  to  do. 

[Drinking-  the  tcine. 
Be  thou  the  resolution  of  quick  youth 
Within  my  veins,  and  manhood's  purpose  stem. 
And  age's  firm,  cold,  subtle  villany ; 
As  if  thou  wert  indeed  my  children's  blood 
Which   I  did  thirst  to  drink.     The  charm  works 

well ! 
It  must  be  done,  it  shall  be  done,  I  swear ! 

[Exit. 


ACT  II. 


SCENE  I. 

•flre  Apartment  in  the  Cenci  Palace. 

Enter  LucKETiA  and  Bernardo. 

lucretia. 

Weep  not,  my  gentle  boy ;  he  struck  hut  me, 
Who  have  borne  deeper  wrongs.     In  truth,  if  he 
Had  killed  me,  he  had  done  a  kinder  deed. 
Oh,  God  Almighty,  do  thou  look  upon  us, 
We  have  no  other  friend  but  only  thee  ! 


Yet  weep  not :  though  I  love  you  as  my  own, 
I  am  not  your  true  mother. 

BERNARDO. 

Oh,  more,  more 
Than  ever  mother  was  to  any  child, 
That  have  you  been  to  me  !     Had  he  not  been 
My  father,  do  you  think  that  I  should  weep  1 

lucretia. 

Alas !  poor  boy,  what  else  couldst  thou  have  done ! 


158 


THE    CENCl 


F.nier  Beatrice. 
BKATiucK  (/ji  a  flurried  voice.') 

Dill  he  pass  this  wiiv  1  Have  you  seen  him,  brother? 

All !   no,  llvat  is  liis  step  iipt>n  the  st;iirs; 

'Tis  nearer  now ;  his  haiiii  is  on  the  door  : 

Mother,  if  I  to  thee  have  ever  been 

A  iluteous  child,  now  save  me  !    Thou,  great  God, 

M'hose  iinaue  upnn  earth  a  fatlier  is. 

Dost  thou  indeed  abandon  me  !   He  comes; 

Tlie  door  is  oiienin^  now;  I  see  his  face; 

He  frowns  on  others,  but  he  smiles  on  me, 

Even  as  he  did  after  the  feast  last  night. 

Enter  a  Servant. 
Almighty  God,  how  merciful  thou  art ! 
'Tis  but  Orsino's servant.     Well,  what  news? 

SKUVANT. 

My  master  bids  me  say,  the  Holy  Father 
Has  sent  back  j'our  petition  thus  uno[)ened. 

[Oivimr  a  Paper. 
And  he  demands  at  what  hour  'twere  secure 
To  visit  you  again  ? 

LUCnKTIA. 

At  the  Ave  Mary. 

[F.zit  Servant. 
So,  daughter,  our  last  hope  has  failed ;  ah  me. 
How  pale  you  look  !  you  tremble,  and  you  stand 
Wrapt  in  some  fixed  and  fearful  meditation, 
As  if  one  thought  were  over  strong  for  you : 
Your  eyes  have  a  chill  glare ;  oh,  dearest  child  ! 
Are  you  gone  mad  ?     If  not,  pray  speak  to  mc. 

HKATIUCK. 

You  see  I  am  not  mad ;  I  speak  to  you. 

LUCIIKTIA. 

You  talked  of  something  that  your  father  did 
After  that  dreadful  feast?     Could  it  be  worse 
Than  when  he  smiled,  and  cried.  My  sons  are  dead ! 
And  every  one  looked  in  his  neighbour's  face 
To  see  if  others  were  as  white  as  he  ? 
At  the  first  word  he  spoke  I  felt  the  blood 
Rush  to  my  heart,  and  fell  into  a  trance  ; 
And  when  it  past  I  sat  all  weak  and  wild ; 
Whilst  you  alone  stood  up,  and  witii  strong  words 
Check'd  his  unnatural  pride;  and  I  could  see 
The  devil  was  rebuked  tiiat  lives  in  him. 
Until  this  hour  thus  you  have  ever  stood 
Between  us  and  your  father's  moody  wrath 
liike  a  protecting  presence  :  your  firm  mind 
Has  been  our  only  refuge  and  defence; 
What  can  have  thus  subdued  it?   What  can  now 
Have  given  you  that  cold  melancholy  look, 
Succeeding  to  your  unaccu.stomcd  fear? 

KKATUICE. 

What  is  it  that  you  .say  ?   I  was  just  tlunking 
'Twere  better  not  to  struggle  any  more. 
Men,  like  my  father,  have  been  dark  and  bloody, 
Yet  never — O  !  before  worse  comes  of  it, 
'Twere  wise  to  die  :  it  ends  in  that  at  last. 

LUCIIV.TI  A. 

Oh,  talk  not  so,  dear  child  I  Tell  me  at  once. 
What  did  your  father  do  or  say  to  you  ? 


He  stiiycd  not  after  that  accursed  feast 

One  moment  in  your  chamber. — Speak  to  me. 

]iKUNAUnn. 
Oh,  sister,  sister,  prithee,  sj)eak  to  us ! 

HKATiiicE  (speukiitir  very  slowly  with  a  forced 
calmness.) 
It  was  one  word,  mother,  one  little  word; 
One  look,  one  smile.  [n'ildly. 

Oh  !  he  has  trampled  me 
Under  his  feet,  and  made  the  blood  stream  down 
My  pallid  cheeks.     And  he  has  given  us  all 
Ditcli-water,  and  the  fever-stricken  flesh 
Of  bulValoes,  and  bade  us  eat  or  starve. 
And  we  have  eaten.     He  has  made  mo  look 
On  my  beloved  Bernardo,  when  the  rust 
Of  heavy  chains  has  gangrened  his  sweet  limbs, 
•And  I  have  never  yet  despaired — but  now  ! 
What  would  I  say  ? 

[Recovering  herself. 
Ah  !  no,  'tis  nothing  new. 
The  sufferings  we  all  share  liave  made  me  wild ; 
He  only  struck  and  cursed  mc  as  he  passed ; 
He  said,  he  lookeil,  he  did — nothing  at  all 
Beyond  his  wont,  yet.it  disordered  me. 
Alas  !  I  am  forselful  of  my  duty, 
I  should  preserve  my  senses  for  your  sake. 

LUCIIKTIA. 

Nay,  Beatrice ;  have  courage,  my  sweet  girl. 

If  any  one  despairs  it  should  be  I, 

Who  loved  him  once,  and  now  nmst  live  with  him 

Till  God  in  j)ity  call  for  him  or  nie. 

For  you  may,  like  your  sister,  find  some  husband, 

And  smile,  years  hence,  with  children  round  your 

knees ; 
Whilst  I,  then  dead,  and  all  this  hideous  coil, 
Shall  be  remembered  only  as  a  dream. 

HKATIIICE. 

Talk  not  to  me,  dear  lady,  of  a  husband. 

Did  you  not  nurse  me  when  my  mother  died  ? 

Did  you  not  shield  me  and  that  dearest  boy  ? 

And  had  we  any  other  friend  but  you 

In  infancy,  with  gentle  words  and  lonks. 

To  win  our  father  not  to  murder  us^ 

And  shall  I  now  desert  you  ?     May  the  ghost 

Of  my  dead  mother  plead  against  my  soul, 

If  I  abandon  her  who,  filled  the  place 

She  left,  with  more  even  than  a  mother's  love  ! 

BERN  Anno. 

.\nd  I  am  of  my  sister's  mind.     Indeed 
I  would  not  leave  you  in  this  wretchedness. 
Even  though  the  Pope  should  make  me  free  to  live 
In  some  blithe  iilace,  like  others  of  my  age, 
With  sports,  ami  delicate  food,  and  the  fresh  air. 
Oh,  never  think  that  I  will  leave  you,  mother! 

•       LUCIIKTIA. 

My  dear,  dear  children  ! 

Fitter  Cenci,  sudtlenly. 

What!  Beatrice  here? 

Come  hitlier  ! 

[She  shrinks  back,  anil  covers  her  face. 

Nay,  hide  not  your  face,  'tis  fair  ; 
Look  up !  Why  yesternight  you  dared  to  look 


THE    CENCI. 


159 


With  disobedient  insolence  upon  me, 

Beridins?  a  slcrn  and  an  inqniring  hrow 

On  what  I  meant ;  whilst  I  then  sou'^ht  to  hide 

That  which  I  came  to  tell  you — but  in  vain. 

BKATnicE  (loildly  staggering  towards  the  door.) 

Oh,  tliat  the  earth  would  gape.     Hide  me,  oh  God  ! 

CKXCI. 

Then  it  was  I  whose  inarticulate  words 
Fell  from  my  lips,  who  with  tottering  steps 
Fled  from  your  presence,  as  you  now  from  mine. 
Stay,  I  command  you !  From  this  day  and  hour 
Never  again,  I  think,  with  fearless  eye, 
And  brow  superior,  and  unaltered  cheek, 
And  that  lip  made  for  tenderness  or  scorn, 
Shalt  thou  sUikc  dumb  the  meanest  of  mankind  ; 
Me  least  of  all.     Now  get  thee  to  thy  chamber, 
Thou  too,  loathed  image  of  thy  cursed  mother, 

[To  BEnNARDO. 

Thy  milky,  meek  face  makes  me  sick  with  hate  ! 

[Exeunt  Beatrice  and  Bernardo. 
f  Aside.)  So  much  has  passed  between  us  as  must 
Me  bold,  her  fearful. — 'Tis  an  awful  thing  [make 
To  touch  such  mischief  as  I  now  conceive : 
So  men  sit  shivering  on  the  dewy  bank 
And  tiy  the  chill  stream  with  their  feet ;  once  in — 
How  the  delighted  spirit  pants  for  joy  ! 

LccRETiA  (advancing  timidly  towards  him.) 
Oh,  husband  !  Pray  forgive  poor  Beatrice, 
She  meant  not  any  ill. 

CEXcr. 

Nor  you  perhaps  ■*        [rote 
Nor  that  young  imp,  whom  you  have  taught  by 
Parricide  with  his  alphabet  ?   Nor  Giacomo  ! 
Nor  those  two  most  unnatural  sons,  who  stirred 
Enmity  up  against  me  with  the  Pope] 
Whom  in  one  night  merciful  God  cut  off: 
Innocent  lambs !     They  thought  not  any  ill. 
You  were  not  here  conspiring  1  you  said  nothing 
Of  how  I  might  be  dungeoned  as  a  madman ; 
Or  be  condemned  to  death  for  some  offence. 
And  you  would  be  the  witnesses  1 — ^This  failing, 
How  just  it  were  to  hire  assassins,  or 
Put  sudden  poison  in  ray  evening  drink  ] 
Or  smother  me  when  overcome  by  wine  ] 
Seeing  we  had  no  other  judge  but  God, 
And  he  had  sentenced  me,  and  there  were  none 
But  you  to  be  the  executioners 
Of  his  decree  enregistered  in  heaven  ? 
Oh,  no  !  You  said  not  this  ] 

LUCRETIA. 

So  help  me  God, 
I  never  thought  the  things  you  charge  me  with  ! 

CETTCI. 

If  you  dare  speak  that  wicked  lie  again, 
I'll  kill  you.     What !  it  was  not  by  your  counsel 
That  Beatrice  disturbed  the  feast  last  night  ? 
You  did  not  hope  to  stir  some  enemies 
Against  me,  and  escape,  and  laugh  to  scorn 
What  every  nerve  of  you  now  trembles  at  1 
Tfou  judged  that  men  were  bolder  than  they  are  ; 
Few  dare  to  stand  between  their  grave  and  me. 


LUCnETIA. 


Look  not  so  dreadfully !  by  niy  salvation 
I  knew  not  aught  that  Beatrice  designed ; 
Nor  do  I  think  she  designed  any  thing 
Until  she  heard  you  talk  of  her  dead  brothers. 


Blaspheming  liar  !  You  are  damned  for  this  ! 
But  I  will  take  you  where  you  may  persuade 
The  stones  you  tread  on  to  deliver  you : 
For  men  there  shall  be  none  but  those  who  dare 
All  things ;  not  question  that  which  I  command. 
On  Wednesday  next  I  shall  set  out:  you  know 
That  savage  rock,  the  castle  of  Petrella "! 
'Tis  safely  walled,  and  moated  round  about: 
Its  dungeons  under  ground,  and  its  thick  towers 
Never  told  tales ;  though  they  have  heard  and  seen 
What  might  make  dumb  things  speak.     Why  do 

you  linger  1 
Make  speediest  preparation  for  the  journey  ! 

[Ezit  LUCRETIA. 

The  all-beholding  sun  yet  shines  •,  I  hear 
A  busy  stir  of  men  about  the  streets ; 
I  see  the  bright  sky  through  the  window  panes  : 
It  is  a  garish,  broad,  and  peering  day  ; 
Loud,  light,  suspicious,  full  of  eyes  and  ears; 
And  every  little  corner,  nook,  and  hole, 
Is  penetrated  with  the  insolent  light. 
Come,  darkness  !  Yet,  what  is  the  day  to  me  1 
And  wherefore  should  I  wash  for  night,  who  do 
A  deed  which  shall  confound  both  night  and  day  1 
'Tis  she  shall  grope  through  a  bewildering  mist 
Of  horror :  if  there  be  a  sun  in  heaven. 
She  shall  not  dare  to  look  upon  its  beams  ; 
Nor  feel  its  warmth.  Let  her,  then,  wish  for  night ; 
The  act  I  think  shall  soon  extinguish  all 
Forme:  I  bear  a  darker,  deadher  gloom 
Than  the  earth's  shade,  or  interlunar  air, 
Or  constellations  quenched  in  murkiest  cloud, 
In  which  I  walk  secure  and  unbeheld 
Towards  my  purpose. — Would  that  it  were  done  ! 

[Ezit. 


SCENE  n. 

./J  Chamber  in  the  Vatican. 
Enter  Camillo  and  Giacomo,  in  conversation. 


There  is  an  obsolete  and  doubtful  law. 

By  which  j-ou  might  obtain  a  bare  provision 

Of  food  and  clothing. 


Nothing  more  1  Alas ! 
Bare  must  be  the  provision  which  strict  law 
Awards,  and  aged  sullen  avarice  pays. 
Why  did  my  fiithcr  not  apprentice  me 
To  some  mechanic  trade  1   I  should  have  then 
Been  trained  in  no  highborn  necessities 
Which  I  could  meet  not  by  my  daily  toil. 
The  eldest  son  of  a  rich  nobleman 
Is  heir  to  all  his  incapacities ; 
He  has  wide  wants,  and  narrow  powers.     If  you, 


ICO 


THE    CENCr. 


Cardinal  Caniillo,  were  reduced  at  once 

From  thricc-drivcd  beds  of  down,  and  delicate  food, 

A  hundred  servants,  and  six  palaces. 

To  that  whicli  nature  doth  indeed  require — 

CAMILLO. 

Kay,  there  is  reason  in  your  plea ;  'twere  hard. 

GIACOMO. 

Tis  hard  for  a  firm  man  to  hear ;  hut  I 
Have  a  dear  wife,  a  lady  of  high  birth, 
Whose  dowry  in  ill  hour  I  lent  my  father. 
Without  a  bond  or  witness  to  the  deed : 
And  children,  who  inherit  her  fine  senses, 
The  fairest  creatures  in  this  breathing  world  ; 
And  she  and  they  reproach  me  not.     Cardinal, 
Do  you  not  think  the  Pope  would  interpose 
And  stretch  authority  beyond  the  law } 

CAMILLO. 

Though  your  peculiar  case  is  hard  I  know 

The  Pope  will  not  divert  the  course  of  law. 

After  that  impious  feast  the  other  night 

I  spoke  with  him,  and  urged  him  then  to  check 

Your  father's  cruel  hand  ;  he  frowned,  and  said, 

"  Children  are  disobedient,  and  they  sting 

Their  fathers'  hearts  to  madness  and  despair, 

Requiting  years  of  care  with  contumely. 

I  pity  the  Count  Cenci  from  my  heart; 

His  outraged  love  perhaps  awakened  hate, 

And  thus  he  is  exasperated  to  ill. 

In  the  great  war  between  the  old  and  young, 

I,  who  have  white  hairs  and  a  tottering  body, 

Will  keep  at  least  blameless  neutrality." 

Enter  Orsino. 
You,  my  good  lord  Orsino,  heard  those  words. 

OllSIJfO. 

What  words  ? 

GIACOMO. 

Alas,  repeat  them  not  again ! 
There  then  is  no  redress  for  me ;  at  least 
None  but  that  which  I  may  achieve  myself. 
Since  I  am  driven  to  the  brink.     But,  say, 
My  innocent  sister  and  my  only  brother 
Are  dying  underneath  my  father's  eye. 
The  memorat)le  torturers  of  this  land, 
Galeaz  Visconti,  Borgia,  Ezzclin, 
Never  inflicted  on  their  meanest  slave 
What  these  endure  ;  shall  they  have  no  protection  ? 

CAMILLO. 

Why,  if  fhey  would  petition  to  the  Pope, 
I  see  not  how  he  could  refuse  it — yet 
He  holds  it  of  most  dangerous  example 
In  aught  to  weaken  the  paternal  power, 
Being,  as  'twere,  the  shadow  of  his  own. 
I  pray  you  now  excuse  me.     I  have  business 
That  will  not  bear  delay. 

[F.xii  Camillo. 

OIACOMO. 

But  you,  Orsino, 
Have  the  petition ;  wherefore  not  present  it! 

onsixo. 
I  have  presented  it,  and  backed  it  with 
My  earnest  prayers,  and  urgent 'interest; 


It  was  returned  unanswered.     I  doubt  not 
But  that  the  strange  and  execrable  deeds 
Alleged  in  it — in  truth  they  might  well  baffle 
Any  belief — have  turned  the  Pope's  displeasure 
Upon  the  accu.sers  from  the  criminal: 
So  I  should  guess  from  what  Camillo  said. 

GIACOMO. 

My  friend,  that  palace-walking  devil,  Gold, 

Has  whispered  silence  to  his  Holiness  : 

And  we  are  lefl,  as  scorpions  ringed  with  fire. 

What  should  we  do  but  strike  ourselves  to  death  7 

For  he  who  is  our  murderous  persecutor 

Is  shielded  by  a  father's  holy  name, 

Or  I  would — 

[Slops  ahruptlj/. 
onsixo. 
What  ?  Fear  not  to  .speak  your  thought. 
Words  are  but  holy  as  the  deeds  they  cover : 
A  priest  who  has  foresworn  the  God  he  serves ; 
A  judge  who  makes  the  truth  weep  at  his  decree; 
A  friend  who  should  weave  counsel,  as  I  now. 
But  as  the  mantle  of  some  selfish  guile ; 
A  father  who  is  all  a  tyrant  seems, 
Were  the  profaner  for  his  sacred  name. 

GIACOMO. 

Ask  me  not  what  I  think  ;  the  unwilling  brain 
Feigns  often  what  it  would  not ;  and  we  trust 
Imagination  with  such  phantasies 
As  the  tongue  dares  not  fashion  into  words  ; 
Which  have  no  words  their  horror  makes  them 
To  the  mind's  eye.     My  heart  denies  itself     [dim 
To  think  what  you  demand. 

ORSIXO. 

But  a  friend's  bosom 
Is  as  the  inmost  caves  of  our  own  mind, 
Where  we  sit  shut  from  the  wide  gaze  of  day, 
And  from  the  all-communicating  air. 
You  look  what  I  suspected — 

GIACOMO. 

Spare  mc  now! 
I  am  as  one  lost  in  a  midnight  wood. 
Who  dares  not  ask  some  harmless  passenger 
The  path  across  the  wilderness,  lest  he. 
As  my  thoughts  are,  should  be — a  murderer. 
I  know  you  arc  my  friend,  and  all  I  dare 
Speak  to  my  soul  that  will  I  trust  with  thee. 
But  now  my  heart  is  heavy,  and  would  take 
Lone  counsel  from  a  night  of  sleepless  care. 
Pardon  mc,  that  I  say  farewell — farewell ! 
I  would  that  to  my  own  suspected  self 
I  could  address  a  word  so  full  of  peace. 

onsixo. 
Farewell ! — Be  your  thoughts  better  or  more  bold. 

[Exit  GiAcoMo. 
I  had  dispo.sed  the  Cardinal  Camillo 
To  feed  his  hope  with  cold  encouragement: 
It  fortunately  serves  my  close  designs 
That  'tis  a  trick  of  this  .same  family 
To  analyze  their  own  and  other  mind.s. 
Such  self-anatomy  shall  teach  the  will 
Dangerous  secrets:  for  it  tempts  our  powers, 
Knowing  what  mu.st  be  thought,  and  may  be  done, 
Into  the  depth  of  darkest  purposes : 


THE    CENCI. 


161 


So  Cenci  fell  into  the  pit ;  even  I, 

Since  Beatrice  unveiled  me  to  myself, 

And  made  me  shrink  from  what  I  cannot  shun, 

Sliovv  a  poor  figure  to  my  own  esteem, 

To  which  I  grow  half  reconciled.     I'll  do 

As  little  mischief  as  I  can ;  that  thought 

Shall  fee  the  accuser  conscience. 

[JIflcr  a  pause. 
Now  what  harm 
If  Cenci  should  be  murdered? — Yet,  if  ninrdered, 
Wherefore  by  me  1  And  what  if  I  could  take 
The  profit,  yet  omit  the  sin  and  peril 
In  such  an  action  ]   Of  all  earthly  things 
I  fear  a  man  whose  blows  outspeed  his  words ; 
And  such  is  Cenci :  and  while  Cenci  lives 
His  daughter's  dowry  were  a  secret  grave 
If  a  priest  wins  her. — Oh,  fair  Beatrice ! 
Would  that  I  loved  thee  not,  or,  loving  thee, 
Could  but  despise  danger,  and  gold,  and  all 
That  frowns  between  my  wish  and  its  effect, 
Or  smiles  beyond  it!  There  is  no  escape: 
Her  bright  form  kneels  beside  me  at  the  altar, 
And  follows  me  to  the  resort  of  men. 
And  fills  my  slumber  with  tumultuous  dreams, 
So  when  I  wake  my  blood  seems  liquid  fire ; 
And  if  I  strike  my  damp  and  dizzy  head. 


My  hot  palm  scorches  it :  her  very  name, 

But  spoken  by  a  stranger,  makes  my  heart 

Sicken  and  {)ant;  and  thus  un])rofitalily 

I  clasp  the  j)hantom  of  unfclt  delights, 

'l^ill  weak  imagination  half  possesses 

The  self-created  shadow.     Yet  much  longer 

Will  I  not  nurse  this  life  of  feverous  hours; 

From  the  unravelled  hopes  of  Giacomo 

I  must  work  out  my  own  dear  purposes. 

I  see,  as  from  a  tower,  the  end  of  all : 

Her  father  dead ;  her  brother  bound  to  me 

By  a  dark  secret,  surer  than  the  grave ; 

Her  mother  scared  and  unexpostulating 

From  the  dread  manner  of  her  wish  achieved  : 

And  she ! — Once  more   take    courage,  my  fabit 

heart; 
What  dares  a  friendless  maiden  matched  with  thee  1 
I  have  such  foresight  as  assures  success ; 
Some  unbeheld  divinity  doth  ever. 
When  dread  events  are  near,  stir  up  men's  minds 
To  black  suggestions ;  and  he  prospers  best. 
Not  who  becomes  the  instrument  of  ill, 
But  who  can  flatter  the  dark  spirit,  that  makes 
Its  empire  and  its  prey  of  other  hearts. 
Till  it  become  his  slave — as  I  will  do. 

lExit. 


ACT  III. 


SCENE  I. 

^n  ..Apartment  in  the  Cenci  Palace, 
LucRETiA  ;  to  her  enter  Beatrice. 

BEATRICE   (sAe   enters  staggering,  and  speaks 
luildly^ 

Reach  me  that  handkerchief! — My  brain  is  hurt; 

My  eyes  are  full  of  blood;  just  wipe  them  for  me — 

I  see  but  indistinctly. — 

iUCRETIA. 

My  sweet  child. 
You  have  no  wound ;  'tis  only  a  cold  dew 
That  starts  from  your  dear  brow. — Alas  !  alas ! 
What  has  befallen  ] 

BEATRICE. 

How  comes  this  hair  undone  ? 
Its  wandering  strings  must  be  what  blind  me  so, 
And  yet  I  tied  it  fast. — O,  horrible ! 
The  pavement  sinks  under  my  feet !     The  walls 
Spin  round !     I  see  a  woman  weeping  there. 
And  standing  calm  and  motionless,  whilst  I 
Slide  giddily  as  the  world  reels. — My  (iod ! 
The  beautiful  blue  heaven  is  ilecked  with  blood! 
The  sunshine  on  the  floor  is  black !    The  air 
Is  changed  to  vapours  such  as  the  dead  breathe 
In  charnel-pits  !   Pah  !  I  am  choked !  There  creeps 
A  clinging,  black,  contaminating  mist 
About  me — ''tis  substantial,  heavy,  thick ; 
I  cannot  pluck  it  from  me,  for  it  glues 
My  fingers  and  my  Umbs  to  one  another. 
And  eats  uito  my  sinews,  and  dissolves 
21 


My  flesh  to  a  pollution,  poisoning 
The  subtle,  pure,  and  inmost  spirit  of  life  ! 
My  God  !  I  never  knew  what  the  mad  felt 
Before ;  for  I  am  mad  beyond  all  doubt ! 

_{^Iore  wildly. 
No,  I  am  dead  !  These  putrefying  limbs 
Shut  round  and  sepulchre  the  panting  soul. 
Which  would  burst  forth  into  the  wandering  air  ! 

[A  pause. 
What  hideous  thought  was  that  I  had  even  now  ] 
'Tis  gone  ;  and  yet  its  burden  remains  here 
O'er  these  dull  eyes — upon  this  weary  heart ! 
O,  world  !  O,  hfc  !  O,  day  !  O,  misery  ! 

LUCRETIA. 

What  ails  thee,  my  poor  child  ?   She  answers  not : 
Her  spirit  apprehends  the  sense  of  pain, 
But  not  its  cause  ;  suffering  has  dried  away 
The  source  from  which  it  sprung. — 

BEATRICE  (franfict)/.) 

I-ikc  Parricide — • 
Misery  has  killed  its  father:  yet  its  father 
Never  like  mine — O,  God !  What  thing  am  1 1 

LUCRETIA. 

My  dearest  child,  what  has  your  father  done  1 

BEATRICE  (doubtfully.) 
W^ho  art  thou,  questioner  ?     I  have  no  father. 

[jlside. 
She  is  the  madhouse  nurse  who  tends  on  me, 
It  is  a  piteous  office. 

o2 


1C2 


THE    CENCI. 


[Til  LrcRETiA  in  a  sluic,  subdued  voice. 
Do  you  know, 
I  thought  I  was  that  wn-tchod  Ucatrice 
Men  .speak  of,  whom  her  father  Koinetiincs  hales 
From  liall  to  hall  by  tlie  eiitaiij;leil  hair; 
At  others,  pens  u])  naked  in  damp  eells 
Where  scaly  reptiles  erawl,  and  sitarves  her  there, 
Till  she  will  eat  stran;;e  flesh.     This  woful  story 
So  did  I  overact  in  my  sick  dreams, 
That  I  imap;ined — no,  it  cannot  be  ! 
Horrible  thinjjs  have  been  in  this  wild  world, 
Prodi;;ious  mixtures,  aiid  confusions  strange 
Of  good  and  ill;  and  worse  have  been  conceived 
Than  ever  there  was  found  a  heart  to  do. 
But  never  fancy  imaged  such  a  deed 
As— 

[Pauscx,  suddenly  recollecting  hemilf. 

Who  art  thou  ]   Swear  to  me,  ere  I  die 
With  fearful  expectation,  that  indeed 
Thou  art  not  what  thou  seemest — Mother ! 


LUCUETIA. 


Oh! 


My  sweet  child,  know  you — 

BEATUICE. 

Ye.t  speak  it  not : 
For  then  if  this  be  truth,  that  other  too 
Must  be  a  truth,  a  firm  enduring  truth, 
Linked  with  each  lasting  circumstance  of  life, 
Never  to  change,  never  to  pass  away. 
Why  so  it  is.     This  is  the  Ccnci  Palace; 
Thou  art  f-ucretia ;  I  am  Beatrice. 
I  have  talked  some  wild  words,  but  will  no  more. 
Mother,  come  near  me :  from  this  point  of  tijuc, 
I  am — ■ 

[Iler  voice  dies  aitay  faintly. 
LUCKETIA. 

Alas  !  what  has  befallen  thee,  child  ] 
What  has  thy  father  done  ] 

BEATRICE. 

What  liave  I  done  T 
Am  I  not  innocent  ?     Is  it  my  crime 
'J'hat  one  with  white  hair,  and  imperious  brow, 
Who  tortured  me  from  my  forgotten  years, 
As  parents  only  dare,  should  call  liiinself 
]\Iy  father,  yet  should  be  ! — Oh,  what  am  1 1 
MHiat  name,  what  ])lace,  what  memory  shall  be 
A\'hat  retrospects,  outliving  even  despair  1  [mine? 

LCCHETIA. 

He  is  a  violent  tyrant,  surely,  child : 

We  know  that  death  alone  can  make  us  free ; 

His  death  or  ours.     But  what  can  he  have  done 

Of  deadlier  outrage  or  worse  injury  1 

Thou  art  unlike  thyself;  thine  eyes  shoot  forth 

A  wandering  and  stratme  spirit     Speak  to  me, 

Unlock  those  pallid  hands  whose  fingers  twine 

With  one  another. 

HEATI11CE. 

'Tis  the  restless  life 
Tortured  within  them.     If  I  try  to  speak 
I  shall  go  mad.     Ay,  somcthiui;  nnist  be  done; 
What,  yet  I  know  not — sometiiingwhii'h  shall  make 
The  thing  that  I  have  sulVcred  but  a  shadow 
In  the  dread  lightning  which  avenges  it; 
Brief,  rapid,  irreversible,  destroying 


The  conseijuence  of  what  it  cannot  cure. 
Some  such  thing  is  to  be  endured  or  done : 
When  I  know  what,  I  shall  be  still  and  calm, 
And  never  anything  will  move  me  more. 
]3ut  now  ! — Oh  blood,  which  art  my  father's  blood, 
Circling  through  these  contaminated  veins, 
If  thou,  poured  forth  on  the  polluted  earth. 
Could  wash  away  the  crime,  and  jjunishment 
By  which  I  sutler — no,  that  cannot  be  ! 
Many  might  doubt  there  were  a  God  above 
Who  sees  and  permits  evil,  and  so  die : 
That  faith  no  agony  shall  obscure  m  me. 

LUCnETIA. 

It  must  indeed  have  been  some  bitter  wrong ; 
Yet  w  hat,  I  dare  not  guess.     Oh  !  my  lost  cliild, 
Hide  not  in  proud  impenetrable  grief 
Thy  sullerings  from  my  fear. 

BEATRICE. 

I  hide  them  not. 
What  are  the  words  which  you  would  have  me 

speak  ? 
I,  who  can  feign  no  image  in  my  mind 
Of  that  which    has    transformed   me.      I.  whose 
Is  like  a  ghost  shrouded  and  folded  up       [thought 
In  its  own  fonnless  horror.     Of  all  words. 
That  minis^ter  to  mortal  intercourse. 
Which  woulilst  thou  hearl   For  there  is  none  to  tell 
My  misery:  if  another  ever  knew 
Aught  like  to  it,  she  died  as  I  will  die, 
And  left  it,  as  I  nmst,  without  a  name. 
Death  !  Death  !  Our  law  and  our  religion  call  thee 
A  punishment  and  a  reward.     Oh,  which 
Have  I  deserved  ] 

lcchetia. 

The  peace  of  innocence ; 
Till  in  your  season  you  be  called  to  heaven. 
Wliate'er  you  may  have  sufltired,  you  have  done 
No  evil.     Death  must  be  the  punishment 
Of  crime,  or  the  reward  of  trampling  down 
The  thorns  which  God  has  strewed  upon  the  path 
Which  leads  to  immortality. 

BEATRICE. 

Ay,  death — 
The  punishment  of  crime.     I  pray  thee,  God, 
Let  me  not  be  bewildered  while  I  judge. 
If  I  must  live  day  after  day,  and  keep 
These  limbs,  the  unworthy  tem])le  of  thy  spirit, 
As  a  foul  den  from  which  what  thou  abhorrost 
May  mock  thee,  unavenged — it  shall  not  be  ! 
Self-murder — no  that  miLrht  be  no  escape. 
For  thy  decree  yawns  like  a  Hell  between 
Our  will  and  it. — Oh !  in  this  mortal  world 
'J'here  is  no  vindication  and  no  law. 
Which  can  adjudjie  and  execute  the  doom 
Of  that  through  which  I  sufl'er. 

Enter  OiisiNO. 
(She  approaches hiin  .'•u/enm/i/.)  Welcome, Friend ! 
I  have  to  tell  you  that,  since  last  we  met, 
I  have  endured  a  wrong  so  great  and  strange, 
That  neither  life  nor  death  can  give  me  rest. 
Ask  me  not  what  it  is,  for  there  are  deeds 
Which   have  no  form,  sufferings  which  have  no 
tongue. 


THE    CENCI. 


163 


onsiNo. 
And  what  is  he  who  has  thus  injured  you  ? 

BEATKICE. 

The  man  they  call  my  ilithcr :  a  dread  name. 

OHSIXO. 

It  cannot  be — 

BEATRICE. 

What  it  can  be,  or  not, 
Forbear  to  think.     It  is,  and  it  has  been ; 
Advise  me  how  it  shall  not  be  again. 
I  thought  to  die ;  but  a  religious  awe 
Restrains  me,  and  the  dread  lest  death  itself 
Might  be  no  refuge  from  the  consciousness 
Of  what  is  yet  unexpiated.     Oh,  speak ! 

ORSIXO. 

Ac^^use  liim  of  the  deed,  and  let  the  law 
Avenge  thee. 

BEATRICE. 

Oh,  ice-hearted  counsellor ! 
If  I  could  find  a  word  that  might  make  known 
The  crime  of  my  destroyer ;  and  that  done. 
My  tongue  should  hke  a  knife  tear  out  the  secret 
Which  cankers  my  heart's  core ;  ay,  lay  all  bare, 
So  that  my  unpolluted  fame  should  be 
With  vilest  gossips  a  stale  mouthed  story ; 
A  mock,  a  by-word,  an  astonishment : — 
If  this  were  done,  which  never  shall  be  done, 
Think  of  the  offender's  gold,  his  dreaded  hate, 
And  the  strange  horror  of  the  accuser's  tale, 
Baffling  belief,  and  overpowering  speech  ; 
Scarce  whispered,  unimaginable,  wrapt 
In  hideous  hints — Oh,  most  assured  redress ! 

ORSISO. 

You  will  endure  it  then  ? 

BEATRICE. 

Endure ! — Orsino, 
It  seems  your  counsel  is  small  profit. 

[Turns  from  him,  and  speaks  half  to  herself. 

Ay, 

All  must  be  suddenly  resolved  and  done. 
What  is  this  undistinguishable  mist 
Of  thoughts,  wliich  rise,  like  shadow  after  shadow, 
Darkening  each  other  ] 

onsiNO. 

Should  the  offender  hve  ? 
Triumph  in  his  misdeed  1   and  make,  by  use 
His  crime,  whate'er  it  is,  dreadful  no  doubt, 
Thine  element :  until  thou  mayest  become 
Utterly  lost ;  subdued  even  to  the  hue 
Of  that  which  thou  permittest  1 

BEATRICE  (Jo  herself.) 

Mighty  death ! 
Thou  double-visagcd  shadow  !     Only  judge ! 
Rightfullest  arbiter ! 

[She  retires,  absorbed  in  thought. 
LUCIIETIA. 

If  the  lightning 
Of  God  has  e'er  descended  to  avenge — 

ORSIXO. 

Blaspheme  not  I  His  high  Providence  commits 
Its  glory  on  this  earth,  and  their  own  wrongs 


Into  the  hands  of  men ;  if  they  neglect 
To  punish  crime — 

LVCRETIA. 

But  if  one,  like  this  wretch. 
Should  mock,  with  gold,  opinion,  law,  and  power? 
If  there  be  no  appeal  to  that  which  makes 
The  guiltiest  trcml)le  !  If,  because  our  wrongs. 
For  that  they  are  unnatural,  strange,  and  mon- 
strous. 
Exceed  all  measure  of  belief  1     Oh,  God! 
If,  for  the  very  reasons  which  should  make 
Redress  most  swift  and  sure,  our  injurer  triumphs? 
And  we,  the  victims,  bear  worse  punishment 
Than  that  appointed  for  their  torturer  ? 

ORSIXO. 

Think  not 
But  that  there  is  redress  where  there  is  wrong, 
So  we  be  bold  enough  to  seize  it. 

LUCRETIA. 

How? 

If  there  were  any  way  to  make  all  sure, 
I  know  not — but  I  think  it  might  be  good 
To— 


Why,  his  late  outrage  to  Beatrice ;' 
For  it  is  such,  as  I  but  faintly  guess. 
As  makes  remorse  dishonour,  and  leaves  her 
Only  one  duty,  how  she  may  avenge : 
You,  but  one  refuge  from  ills  ill  endured ; 
Me,  but  one  counsel — 

LUCRETIA. 

For  we  cannot  hope 
That  aid,  or  retribution,  or  resource 
Will  arise  thence,  where  every  other  one 
Might  find  them  with  less  need. 


(Beatrice  advances.') 


Then— 


BEATRICE. 

Peace,  Orsino ! 
And,  honoured  Lady,  while  I  speak,  I  pray 
That  you  put  off,  as  garments  overworn, 
Forbearance  and  respect,  remorse  and  fear, 
And  all  the  fit  restraints  of  daily  hfe. 
Which  have  been  borne  from  childhood,  but  which 
Would  be  a  mockery  to  my  holier  plea.         [now 
As  I  have  said,  I  have  endured  a  wrong. 
Which,  though  it  be  expressionless,  is  such 
As  asks  atonement,  both  for  what  is  past, 
And  lest  I  be  reserved,  day  after  day. 
To  load  with  crimes  an  overburdened  soul. 
And  be — what  ye  can  dream  not.     I  have  prayed 
To  God,  and  I  have  talked  with  my  own  heart, 
And  have  unravelled  my  entangled  will, 
And  have  at  length,  determined  what  is  right. 
Art  thou  my  friend,  Orsino  ]   False  or  true  ? 
Pledge  thy  salvation  ere  I  speak. 

onsixo. 

I  swear 
To  dedicate  my  cunning,  and  my  strength, 


IGl 


THE    CENCI. 


My  silence,  and  whatever  else  is  mine, 
To  thy  commands. 

LrcnKTiA. 
You  think  we  should  devise 
His  death  ? 

BEATnicr.. 
■  And  execute  what  is  devised, 
And  suddenly.     We  must  be  brief  and  bold. 

onsiNo. 

And  yet  most  cautious. 

LUCnKTtA. 

For  the  jealous  laws 
Would  punish  us  with  death  and  infamy 
For  that  which  it  became  themselves  to  do. 

BEATIIUE. 

Be  cautious  as  ye  may,  but  prompt.     Orsino, 
What  are  the  means? 

onsixo. 
I  know  two  dull,  fierce  outlaws, 
Who  think  man's  spirit  as  a  worm's,  and  they 
Would  trample  out,  for  any  slight  caprice. 
The  meanest  or  the  noblest  life.     This  mood 
Is  marketable  here  in  Rome.     They  sell 
What  we  now  want. 

lUCHETIA. 

To-morrow,  before  dawn, 
Ccnci  will  take  us  to  that  lonely  rock, 
Petrella,  in  the  Apulian  Apennines. 
If  he  arrive  there — 

BEATniCE. 

He  must  not  arrive. 
onsiNo. 
Will  it  be  dark  before  you  reach  the  tower  1 

LUCIIETIA. 

The  sun  will  scarce  be  set. 

BEATIIICE. 

But  I  remember 
Two  miles  on  this  side  of  the  fort,  the  road 
Crosses  a  deep  ra^^nc ;  'tis  rouffh  and  narrow, 
And  winds  with  short  turns  down  the  precipice; 
And  in  its  depth  there  is  a  mightj'  rock. 
Which  has,  from  unimaginable  years. 
Sustained  itself  with  terror  and  with  toil 
Over  a  gulf,  and  with  the  agony 
With  which  it  clings  seems  slowly  coming  down ; 
Even  as  a  wretched  soul  hour  after  hour 
Clings  to  the  mass  of  life ;  yet,  cKnging,  leans ; 
And,  leaning,  makes  more  dark  the  dread  abyss 
In  which  it  fears  to  fall :  beneath  this  crag 
Hupp  as  despair,  as  if  in  weariness. 
The  ineliincboiy  moiiiitaiii  yawns — below, 
You  hear  luit  sec  not  an  impetuous  torrent 
Raging  among  the  caverns,  and  a  bridge 
Crosses  the  chasm;  and  hi;j;h  above  there  grow, 
With  intersecting  trunks,  from  crag  to  crag. 
Cedars,  and  yews,  and  pines;  whose  tangled  hair 
Is  matted  in  one  solid  roof  of  shade 
By  the  dark  ivy's  twine.     At  noonday  here 
'Tis  twilight,  and  at  sunset  blackest  night. 


onsiNo. 
Before  you  reach  that  bridge  make  some  excuse 
For  spurring  on  your  mules,  or  loitering 
Until — 

DEATniCE. 

What  sound  is  that  1 

LUCRETIA. 

Hark  !  No,  it  cannot  be  a  servant's  step  ; 

It  must  be  Cenci,  unex])ectedly 

Returned — Make  some  excuse  for  being  here. 

BEATIIICE  (Jo  OnsiNO  Q-S  skc  gOCS  OUt!) 

That  step  we  hear  approach  must  never  pass 
The  bridge  of  which  we  spoke. 

[Exeunt  Lucretia  andBEATnicE. 
onsiyo. 

What  shall  I  do  7 
Cenci  must  find  me  here,  and  I  must  bear 
The  imjjerious  inipiisition  of  his  looks 
As  to  what  brought  me  hither :  let  me  mask 
Mine  own  in  some  inane  and  vacant  smile. 

Enter  Giacomo,  vt  a  hurried  manner. 
How !  Have  you  ventured  thither !  know  you  then 
That  Cenci  is  from  home  1 

GIACOMO. 

I  sought  him  here ; 
And  now  must  wait  till  he  returns. 

OHSINO. 

Great  God ! 
Weigh  you  the  danger  of  this  rashness  ? 

GIACOMO. 

Ay! 
Does  my  destroyer  know  his  danger  ?     We 
Are  now  no  more,  as  once,  parent  and  child. 
But  man  to  man ;  the  oppressor  to  the  oppressed ; 
The  slanderer  to  the  slandered ;  foe  to  foe. 
He  has  cast  Nature  oil",  which  was  his  shield. 
And  Nature  casts  him  off,  who  is  her  shame ; 
And  I  spurn  both.     Is  it  a  father's  throat 
Which  I  will  shake?   and  say,  I  ask  not  gold; 
I  ask  not  happy  years ;  nor  memories 
Of  tranquil  childhood  ;  nor  home-sheltered  love ; 
Though  all  these  hast  thou  torn  from  me,  and  more; 
But  only  my  fair  fame ;  only  one  hoard 
Of  peace,  wliich  I  thought  hidden  from  thy  hate. 
Under  the  ])enury  heaped  on  me  by  thee ; 
Or  I  will — God  can  umlerstand  and  pardon. 
Why  should  I  speak  with  man  ? 

ORSIKO. 

Be  calm,  dear  friend. 


Well,  I  will  calmly  tell  you  what  he  did. 
This  old  Francesco  Cenci,  as  you  know, 
Borrowed  the  dowry  of  my  wife  from  me, 
And  then  denied  the  loan;  and  left  me  so 
In  poverty,  the  which  I  sought  to  mend 
By  holding  a  poor  olfice  in  the  state. 
It  had  been  promised  to  me,  and  already 
I  bought  new  clothing  for  my  ragged  babes. 
And  my  wife  smiled ;  and  my  heart  knew  repose; 
When  Cenci's  intercession,  as  I  foimd, 


THE    CENCI. 


1C5 


Conferred  this  office  on  a  wretch,  whom  thus 

He  paid  for  vilest  service.     I  returned 

With  this  ill  news,  and  we  sate  sad  together 

Solacing  our  despondency  with  tears 

Of  such  affection  and  unbroken  faith 

As  temper  life's  worst  bitterness :  when  he, 

As  he  is  wont,  came  to  upbraid  and  curse, 

Mocking  our  poverty,  and  telling  us 

Such  was  God's  scourge  for  disobedient  sons. 

And  then,  that  I  might  strike  him  dumb  with  shame, 

I  spoke  of  my  wife's  dowry ;  but  he  coined 

A  brief  yet  specious  tale,  how  I  had  wasted 

The  sum  in  secret  riot ;  and  he  saw 

My  wife  was  touched,  and  he  went  smihng  forth. 

And  when  I  knew  the  impression  he  had  made, 

And  felt  my  wife  insult  with  silent  scorn 

My  ardent  trutli,  and  look  averse  and  cold, 

I  went  forth'  too ;  but  soon  returned  again ; 

Yet  not  so  soon  but  that  my  wife  had  taught 

My  children  her  harsh  thoughts,  and  they  all  cried, 

"  Give  us  clothes,  flither  !    Give  us  better  food  ! 

What  you  in  one  night  squander  were  enough 

For  months  !"  I  looked  and  saw  that  home  was  hell. 

And  to  that  hell  will  I  return  no  more, 

Until  mine  enemy  has  rendered  up 

Atonement,  or,  as  he  gave  life  to  me, 

I  will,  reversing  nature's  law —  .    " 

ORSISO. 

Trust  me, 
The  compensation  wliich  thou  seckest  here 
Will  be  denied. 

GIACOMO. 

Then — Are  you  not  my  friend  ? 
Did  you  not  hint  at  the  alternative. 
Upon  the  brink  of  which  you  see  I  stand. 
The  other  day  when  we  conversed  together  ? 
My  wrongs  were  then  less.     That  word  parricide. 
Although  I  am  resolved,  haunts  me  like  fear. 

ORSINO. 

It  must  be  fear  itself,  for  the  bare  word 

Is  hollow  mockcr3^     Mark,  how  wisest  God 

Draws  to  one  point  the  threads  of  a  just  doom, 

So  sanctifying  it :  what  you  devise 

Is,  as  it  were,  accomphshed. 

GIACOMO. 

Is  he  dead  t 

ORSINO. 

His  grave  is  ready.     Know  that  since  we  met 
Cenci  has  done  an  outrage  to  his  daughter. 

GIACOMO. 

What  outrage  1 

onsixo. 
That  she  speaks  not,  but  you  may 
Conceive  such  half  conjectures  as  I  do. 
From  her  fixed  paleness,  and  the  lofty  grief 
Of  her  stern  brow,  bent  on  the  idle  air. 
And  her  severe  unmodulated  voice, 
DrovFning  both  tenderness  and  dread ;  and  last 
From  this ;  that  whilst  her  step-mother  and  I 
Bewildered  in  our  horror,  talk  together 
With  obscure  hints  ;  both  self-misunderstood. 
And  darkly  guessing,  stumbling,  in  our  talk, 


Over  the  truth,  and  yet  to  its  revenge. 

She  interrupted  us,  and  with  a  look 

Which  told,  before  she  spoke  it,  he  must  die — 

GIACOMO. 

It  is  enough.     My  doubts  are  well  appeased ; 

There  is  a  higher  reason  for  the  act 

Than  mine  ;  there  is  a  holier  judge  than  me, 

A  more  inihlamed  avenger.     Beatrice, 

Who  in  the  gentleness  of  thy  sweet  youth 

Hast  never  trodden  on  a  worm,  or  bruised 

A  living  flower,  but  thou  hast  pitied  it 

With  needless  tears  !     Fair  sister,  thou  in  whom 

Men  wondered  how  such  loveliness  and  wisdom 

Did  not  destroy  each  other  !    Is  tlierc  made 

Ravage  of  thee  1    O,  heart,  I  ask  no  more 

Justification  !    Shall  I  wait,  Orsino, 

Till  he  return,  and  stab  him  at  the  door  1 

ORSIXO. 

Not  so ;  some  accident  might  interpose 
To  rescue  him  fi-om  what  is  now  most  sure ; 
And  you  are  unprovided  where  to  fly, 
How  to  excuse  or  to  conceal.     Nay,  hsten : 
All  is  contrived ;  success  is  so  assured 
That— 

Enter  Beatrice. 

BEATRICE. 

'Tis  my  brother's  voice !    You  know  me  not  1 

GIACOMO. 

My  sister,  my  lost  sister  !  ^ 

BEATRICE. 

Lost  indeed ! 
I  see  Orsino  has  talked  with  you,  and 
That  you  conjecture  things  too  horrible 
To  speak,  yet  far  less  than  the  truth.  Now,  stay  not, 
He  might  return :  yet  kiss  me  ;  I  shall  know 
That  then  thou  hast  consented  to  his  death. 
Farewell,  farewell !  Let  piety  to  God, 
Brotherly  love,  justice,  and  clemency, 
And  all  things  that  make  tender  hardest  hearts, 
Make  thine  hard,  brother.     Answer  not — farewell. 
lExeunt  severally. 


SCENE  n. 

A  mean  Apartment  in  GiACOMo's  House. 
GiACOMO  alone. 

GIACOMO. 

'Tis  midnight,  and  Orsino  comes  not  j-et. 

{^Thunder,  and  the  sound  of  a  storm. 
What !  can  the  everlasting  elements 
Feel  with  a  worm  like  man  1     If  so,  the  shaft 
Of  mercy-winged  lightning  would  not  fall 
On  stones  and  trees.     My  wife  and  children  sleep : 
They  are  now  living  in  unmeaning  dreams : 
But  I  must  wake,  still  doubting  if  that  deed 
Be  just  which  was  most  necessary.     O, 
Thou  unreplenished  lamp  !  whose  narrow  fire 
Is  shaken  by  the  wind,  and  on  whose  edge 
Devouring  darkness  hovers  !    Thou  small  flame, 


166 


THE    CENCI. 


Which,  as  a  Jying  pulse  rises  and  falls, 
Still  flickorest  up  and  down,  how  very  soon 
Did  I  not  feed  Uice,  wouKlst  thou  fail  and  be 
As  thou  hadst  never  been  !    !So  wastes  and  sinks 
Even  now,  perhaps,  the  life  that  kindled  mine: 
But  that  no  j)Ower  can  fill  with  vii;d  oil 
That  broken  lamp  of  llesh.     Ila  !  'tis  the  blood 
Which  fed  tliese  veins  that  ebbs  till  all  is  cold  ; 
It  is  the  form  that  moulded  mine,  that  sinks 
Into  the  white  and  yellow  spasms  of  death: 
It  is  the  soul  by  which  mine  was  arrayed 
In  God's  immortal  likeness  which  now  stands 
IS'aked  before  Heaven's  judgment-seat ! 

[^  bell  strikes . 
One!   Two! 
The  hours  crawl  on  ;  and  when  my  hairs  are  white 
My  son  will  then  perhaps  be  waiting  thus, 
Tortured  between  just  hate  and  vain  remorse ; 
Chiding  the  tardy  messenger  of  news 
Like  those  which  I  exj)ect.     I  almost  wish 
He  be  not  dead,  although  my  wrongs  are  great ; 
Yet — 'tis  Orsino's  step. 

Enter  Obsino. 

Speak ! 


I  am  come 


To  say  he  has  escaped. 


GIACOMO. 

Escaped 

ORSIXO. 


And  safe 
Within  Petrella.     He  passed  by  the  spot 
Appointed  for  the  deed  an  hour  too  soon. 

GIACOMO. 

Are  we  the  fools  of  such  contingencies  1 

And  do  we  waste  in  blind  misgivings  thus 

The  hours  when  we  should  act  ]     Then  wind  and 

thunder, 
Which  seemed  to  how!  his  knell,  is  the  loud  laughter 
With   which   Heaven    mocks  our  weakness !     I 

henceforth 
Will  ne'er  repent  of  aught  designed  or  done. 
But  my  repentance. 

ORSIXO. 

See,  the  lamp  is  out. 

GIACOMO. 

If  no  remorse  is  ours  when  the  dim  air 
Has  drunk  this  innocent  flame,  why  should  we  quail 
When  Cenci's  life,  that  hght  by  which  ill  spirits 
Sec  the  worst  deeds  they  prompt,  shall  sink  for  ever  1 
No,  I  am  hardened. 

onsiNo. 
Why,  what  need  of  this  ! 
Who  feared  the  pale  intrusion  of  remorse 
In  a  just  deed?     Although  our  first  plan  failed, 
Doui)t  not  but  he  will  soon  be  laid  to  rest. 
But  light  the  lamp;  let  us  not  talk  i'  the  dark, 

GIACOMO  (Jii^/iting  the  lamp.) 
And  yet,  once  quenched,  I  cannot  thus  relume 
My  father's  life :  do  you  not  think  his  ghost 
Might  plead  that  argument  with  God  ? 


OBSIXO. 

Once  gone, 
You  cannot  now  recall  your  sisters  peace  ; 
Your  own  extinguished  years  of  youth  and  hope; 
TS'or  your  wile's  bitter  words;  nor  all  the  taunts 
Which  from  the  prosperous,  weak  misfortune  takes ; 
Nor  your  dead  mother;  nor — 

GIACOMO. 

O,  sj)eak  no  more ! 
I  am  resolved,  although  this  ver^'  hand 
Must  quench  the  life  that  animated  it. 

oiisixo. 
There  is  no  need  of  that.     liistcn  :  you  know 
Olimpio,  the  castellan  of  Petrella 
In  old  Colonna's  time ;  him  whom  your  father 
Degraded  from  his  j)ost  1     And  Miuzio, 
That  desperate  wretch,  whom  he  deprived  last  year 
Of  a  reward  of  blood,  well  earned  and  due  1 

GIACOMO. 

I  knew  Olimpio ;  and  they  say  he  hated 
Old  Cenci  so,  that  in  his  silent  rage 
His  lips  grew  white  only  to  see  him  pass. 
Of  Maraio  I  know  nothing. 
ousixo. 

Marzio's  hate 
Matches  Olimpio's.     I  have  sent  these  men, 
But  in  your  name,  and  as  at  your  request, 
To  talk  with  Beatrice  and  Lucretia. 

GIACOMO. 

Only  to  talk ! 

OHSIXO. 

The  moments  which  even  now 
Pass  onward  to  to-morrow's  midnight  hour. 
May  memorize  their  flight  with  death ;  ere  then 
They  must  have  talked,  and  may  perhaps  have  done, 
And  made  an  end. 

GIACOMO. 

Listen!    What  sound  is  that? 
onsixo. 
The    house-dog    moans,  and    the   beams  creak: 
nought  else. 

GIACOMO. 

It  is  my  wife  complaining  in  her  sleep : 

I  doubt  not  she  is  saying  bitter  things 

Of  me  ;  and  all  my  children  round  her  dreaming 

That  I  deny  them  sustenance. 

OHSIXO. 

Wliilst  he 
Who  truly  took  it  from  them,  and  who  fills 
Their  hungry  rest  with  bitterness,  now  sleeps 
Lapped  in  bad  ])lcasures,  and  triumphantly 
Mocks  thee  in  visions  of  successful  hate 
Too  like  the  truth  of  day. 

GIACOMO. 

If  e'er  he  wakes 
Again,  I  will  not  trust  to  hireling  hands — 

onsixo. 
Why,  that  wore  well.    I  must  be  gone ;  good  night ! 
When  next  we  meet  may  all  be  done ! 

GIACOMO. 

And  all 
Forgotten  :  Oh,  that  I  had  never  been  !     [Eicuni. 


THE    CENCI. 


107 


ACT  IV. 


SCENE  I. 

jSn  Apartment  in  the  Castle  of  Petrclla. 
Enter  Cenci. 

CENCI. 

She  comes  not;  yet  I  left  her  even  now 
Vunquishod  and  faint.     She  knows  the  penalty 
Of  her  delay ;  yet  what  if  threats  are  vain  ? 
Am  I  not  now  within  Pctrella's  niout  T 
Or  fear  I  still  the  eyes  and  ears  of  Rome  1 
Mi^ht  I  not  drag  her  by  the  golden  hair  1 
Stamp  on  her  ]   Keep  her  sleepless,  till  her  brain 
Be  overworn?   Tame  her  with  chains  and  famine? 
Less  would  suffice.     Yet  so  to  leave  undone 
What  I  most  seek!     No,  'tis  her  stubborn  will, 
Which,  by  its  own  consent,  shall  stoop  as  low 
As  that  which  drags  it  down. 

Enter  Lucbetia. 

Thou  loathed  wretch ! 
Hide  thee  from  my  abhorrence  ;  fly,  begone  ! 
Yet  stay  !  Bid  Beatrice  come  hither. 


LUCRETIA. 


Oh, 


Husband  !  I  pray,  for  thine  own  WTelched  sake. 
Heed  what  thou  dost.  A  man  who  walks  like  thee 
Through  crimes,  and   through   the  danger  of  his 

crimes, 
Each  hour  may  stumble  o'er  a  sudden  grave. 
And  thou  art  old;  thy  hairs  are  hoary  gray  ; 
As  thou  wouldst  save  thyself  from  death  and  hell, 
Pity  thy  daughter;  give  her  to  some  friend 
In  marriage  ;  so  that  she  may  tempt  thee  not 
To  hatred,  or  worse  thoughts,  if  worse  there  be. 


What !  like  her  sister,  who  has  found  a  home 
To  mock  my  hate  from  with  prosperity  T 
Strange  ruin  shall  destroy  both  her  and  thee, 
And  all  that  yet  remain.     My  death  may  be 
Rapid,  her  destiny  outspecds  it.     Go, 
Bid  her  come  hither,  and  before  my  mood 
Be  changed,  lest  I  should  drag  her  by  the  hair. 

LUCRETIA. 

She  sent  me  to  thee,  husband.     At  thy  presence 
She  fell,  as  thou  dost  know,  into  a  trance ; 
And  in  that  trance  she  heard  a  voice  which  said, 
"  Cenci  must  die  !  let  him  confess  himself ! 
Even  now  the  accusing  angel  waits  to  hear 
If  God,  to  punish  his  enormous  crimes, 
Harden  his  dying  heart !" 

CENCI. 

Why — such  things  are  : 
No  doubt  divine  revealings  may  be  made. 
'Tis  plain  I  have  been  favoured  from  above, 
For  when  I  cursed  my  sons,  they  died — Ay — so — 
As  to  the  right  or  wrong,  that's  talk — repentance — 
Repentance  is  an  easy  moment's  work, 
And  more  depends  on  God  than  me.  Well — well — 


I  must  give  up  the  greater  point,  which  was 
To  poison  and  cornijit  her  soul. 

[j3  pause;   Lucretia  approaches  nnrioushjy 
and  then  shrinks  buck  as  he  speaks. 
One,  two; 
Ay — Rocco  and  Cristofano  my  curse 
Strangled :  and  Giacomo,  I  think,  will  find 
Life  a  worse  Hell  than  that  beyond  the  grave  : 
Beatrice  shall,  if  there  be  skill  in  hate. 
Die  in  despair,  blaspheming  :  to  Bernardo, 
He  is  so  innocent,  I  will  bequeath 
The  memory  of  these  deeds,  and  make  his  youth 
The  sepulchre  of  hope,  where  evil  thoughts 
Shall  grow  like  weeds  on  a  neglected  tomb. 
When  nil  is  done,  out  in  the  wide  Campagna, 
I  will  pile  up  my  silver  and  my  gold  ; 
My  cosily  robes,  paintings,  and  tapestries; 
My  parchments,  and  all  records  of  my  wealth  ; 
And  make  a  bonfire  in  my  joy,  and  leave 
Of  my  possessions  nothing  but  my  name; 
Which  shall  be  an  inheritance  to  strip 
Its  wearer  bare  as  infamy.     That  done. 
My  soul,  which  is  a  scourge,  will  I  resign 
Into  the  hands  of  him  who  wielded  it ; 
Be  it  for  its  own  punishment  or  theirs. 
He  will  not  ask  it  of  me  till  the  lash 
Be  broken  in  its  last  and  deepest  wound ; 
Until  its  hate  be  all  inflicted.     Yet, 
Lest  death  outspeed  my  purpose,  let  it  make 
Short  work  and  sure.  [Ooing. 

xucKETiA  (stops  him.) 

Oh,  stay  !  It  was  a  feint : 
She  had  no  vision,  and  she  heard  no  voice. 
I  said  it  but  to  awe  thee. 


That  is  well. 
Vile  paltercr  with  the  sacred  truth  of  God, 
Be  thy  soul  choked  with  that  blaspheming  he  ! 
For  Beatrice,  worse  terrors  are  in  store, 
To  bend  her  to  my  will. 

LUCRETIA. 

Oh,  to  what  will  1 
What  cruel  sufferings,  more  than  she  has  known, 
Canst  thou  inflict  1 

CENCI. 

Andrea  !  go,  call  mj'  daughter. 
And  if  she  comes  not,  tell  her  that  I  come. 
M'hat  sufl'erings  ]   I  will  drag  her,  step  by  step. 
Through  infamies  unheard  of  among  men ; 
She  shall  stand  .shelterless  in  the  broad  noon 
Of  public  scorn,  for  acts  blazoned  abroad. 
One  among  which  shall  be — What  ]     Canst  thou 

guess  1 
She  shall  become  (for  what  she  most  abhors 
Shall  have  a  fascination  to  entrap 
Her  loathing  will.)  to  her  own  conscious  self 
All  she  appears  to  others;  and  when  dead. 
As  she  shall  die  unshrived  and  unforgiven, 
A  rebel  to  her  father  and  her  God, 


168 


T}1E    CENCI. 


Her  corpse  sliall  be  abandoned  to  the  hounds ; 
Her  name  shall  be  tlie  terror  of  the  earth  ; 
Her  spirit  sliall  ajiproaeli  the  throne  of  God 
Plague-spottetl  with  my  rurses.     I  will  make 
Body  and  soul  a  monstrous  lump  of  ruin. 


Enter  Andrea. 


The  lady  Beatrice — 


Said  she ! 


CENCI. 

Speak,  pale  slave  !  What 


ANDREA. 

My  Lord,  'twas  what  she  looked ;  she  said  : 
"  Go  tell  my  father  that  I  see  the  gulf 
Of  Hell  between  us  two,  which  he  may  pass ; 
I  will  not."  [Ezit  Andrea. 


Go  thou  quick,  Lucrctia, 
Tell  her  to  come ;  yet  let  her  understand 
Her  coming  is  consent ;  and  say,  moreover, 
That  if  she  comes  not  I  will  curse  her. 

[Elit  LUCRETIA. 

Ha! 
With  what  but  with  a  father's  curse  doth  God 
Panic-strike  armed  victory,  and  make  pale 
Cities  in  their  prosperity  ?  The  world's  Father 
Must  grant  a  parent's  prayer  against  his  child, 
Be  he  who  asks  even  what  men  call  me. 
Will  not  the  deaths  of  her  rebellious  brothers 
Awe  her  before  I  speak  ?   For  I  on  them 
Did  imprecate  ijuick  ruin,  and  it  came. 

Enter  Lucretia. 
Well ;  what  ?   Speak,  wretch  ! 

LUCKETIA. 

She  said,  '<  I  cannot  come  ; 
Go  toll  my  father  that  I  see  a  torrent 
Of  his  own  blood  raging  between  us." 


CEXci  (kneeling.) 


God ! 


Hear  me  !  If  this  most  specious  mass  of  flesh. 
Which  thou  hast  made  my  daughter ;  this  my  blood, 
This  particle  of  my  divided  being  ; 
Or  rather  this  my  banc  and  my  disease. 
Whose  sight  infects  and  poisons  me ;  this  devil. 
Which  sprung  from  me  as  from  a  hell,  was  meant 
To  aught  good  use  ;  if  iier  ))riglit  loveliness 
Was  kindled  to  illumine  this  dark  world; 
If  nursed  by  thy  selectest  dew  of  love. 
Such  virtues  blossom  in  her  as  should  make 
1'lie  peace  of  life,  I  pray  thee  for  my  sake, 
As  thou  the  common  God  and  Father  art 
Of  her,  and  me,  and  all ;  reverse  that  doom  ! 
Earth,  in  the  name  of  God,  let  her  food  be 
Poison,  until  she  be  incrnstcd  round 
With  leprous  stains!   Heaven,  rain  upon  her  head 
The  blistering  drops  of  the  Maremma's  dew, 
Till  she  be  speckled  liki'  a  toad  ;  parch  up 
Those  love-enkiridlcd  lips,  war[)  those  tine  limbs 
To  loathed  lameness  !  All-beholding  sun. 


Strike  in  thine  envy  those  lile-darting  eyes 
M'ith  thine  own  bhnding  beams  ! 

JLCCIIETIA. 

Peace  !  peace ! 
For  thine  own  sake  unsay  those  dreadful  words. 
When  high  God  grants,  he  punishes  such  prayers. 

cExci  (Leaping  up,  and  throwing  his  right  hand 

towards  Heaven.) 
He  does  his  will,  I  mine !  This  in  addition, 
That  if  she  have  a  child 

LUCUETIA. 

Horrible  thought ! 

CENCI. 

That  if  ever  she  have  a  child ;  and  thou. 

Quick  Nature!  I  adjure  thee  by  thy  God, 

That  thou  be  fruitful  in  her,  and  increase 

And  multiply,  fulfilling  his  connnand, 

And  my  deep  imprecation!   May  it  be 

A  hideous  likeness  of  herself;  that  as 

From  a  distorting  mirror,  she  may  see 

Her  image  mixed  with  what  she  most  abhors. 

Smiling  upon  her  from  her  nursing  breast. 

And  that  the  child  may  from  its  infancy 

Grow,  day  by  day,  more  wicked  and  deformed, 

Turning  her  mother's  love  to  misery : 

And  that  both  she  and  it  may  live,  until 

It  shall  repay  her  care  and  pain  with  hate. 

Or  what  may  else  be  more  uimatural. 

So  he  may  hunt  her  through  the  clamorous  scofTs 

Of  the  loud  world  to  a  dishonoured  grave. 

Shall  I  revoke  this  curse  1   Go,  bid  her  come. 

Before  my  words  are  chronicled  in  heaven. 

[Exit  Lucretia. 
I  do  not  feel  as  if  I  were  a  man, 
But  like  a  fiend  appointed  to  chastise 
The  offences  of  some  unrcmenibered  world. 
My  blood  is  running  up  and  down  my  veins! 
A  fearful  pleasure  makes  it  prick  and  tingle : 
I  feel  a  giddy  sickness  of  strange  awe ; 
My  heart  is  beating  with  an  expectation 
Of  horrid  joy. 

Enter  Lucretia. 

What?  Speak! 

LCCHETIA. 

She  bids  thee  curse ; 
And  if  thy  curses,  as  they  cannot  do, 
Could  kill  her  soul — 

CEXCI. 

She  would  not  come.    'Tis  well, 
I  can  do  both :  first  take  what  I  demand. 
And  tlien  extort  concession.     To  thy  chamber! 
Fly  ere  I  spurn  thee  :  and  beware  this  night 
That  thou  cross  not  my  footstejis.     It  were  safer 
To  come  between  the  tiger  and  his  prey. 

[Exit  Lucretia. 
It  must  be  late ;  mine  eyes  grow  weary  dim 
With  unaccustomed  heaviness  to  sleep. 
Conscience  !   Oh,  thou  most  insolent  of  lies  ! 
They  say  that  sleep,  that  healing  dew  of  heaven. 
Steeps  not  in  balm  the  foldings  of  the  brain 
Which  thinks  thee  an  impostor.     I  will  go. 
First  to  belie  thee  with  an  hour  of  rest. 
Which  will  be  deep  and  calm,  I  feel;  and  then — 


THE    CENCI.                                                            169 

0,  multituJinous  Hell,  the  fiends  will  shake 

OLIMPIO. 

Thine  arclics  with  the  laughter  of  their  joy  ! 

Or  'tis  my  hate,  and  the  deferred  desire 

Tliere  shall  be  lanieiitalioii  heard  in  Heaven 

To  wreak  it,  which  extinguishes  their  blood. 

As  o'er  an  angel  fallen  ;  and  upon  Eartii 

MARZIO. 

All  good  shall  ilroop  and  sieken,  and  ill  things 
Shall,  with  a  spirit  of  unnatural  life, 

You  are  inclined  then  to  tliis  business  1 

Stir  and  be  quiekened — even  as  I  am  now. 

OLIMPIO. 

[Exit. 

Ay, 

If  one  should  bribe  me  with  a  thousand  crowns 
To  kill  a  serpent  which  had  stung  my  child, 

' 

SCENE  ir. 

I  could  not  be  more  willing. 

Before  the  Castle  of  Petrella. 

Eitter  Beatrice  and  Lucretia  below. 

Enter  Beatrice  and  Lucretia  above  on  the  ramparts. 

Noble  ladies 

BEATRICE. 

•  ■ 

BEATRICE. 

They  come  not  yet. 

Are  ye  resolved  1 

trCRETIA. 

OLIMPIO. 

'Tis  scarce  midnight. 

Is  he  asleep  ] 

BEATRICE. 

MARZIO. 

How  slow 

Is  all 

Behind  the  course  of  thought,  even  sick  with  speed, 

Quiet  1 

Lags  leaden-footed  time  ! 

LUCRETIA. 

lUCRETIA. 

I  mixed  an  opiate  with  his  drink: 

The  minutes  pass — 

He  sleeps  so  soundly — 

If  he  should  waive  before  the  deed  is  done  1 

BEATRICE. 

BEATRICE. 

That  his  death  will  be 

0,  Mother !  He  must  never  wake  again. 

But  as  a  change  of  sin-chastising  dreams, 

What  thou  hast  said  persuades  me  that  our  act 

A  dark  continuance  of  the  Hell  within  liim, 

Will  but  dislodge  a  spirit  of  deep  hell 

WHiich  God  extinguish  !     But  ye  are  resolved  1 

Out  of  a  human  form. 

Ye  know  it  is  a  high  and  holy  deed  1 

LUCRETIA. 

OLIMPIO. 

'Tis  true  he  spoke 

We  are  resolved. 

Of  death  and  judgment  with  strange  confidence 

MARZIO. 

For  one  so  wicked ;  as  a  man  believing 

As  to  the  how  this  act 

In  God,  yet  recking  not  of  good  or  ill. 

Be  warranted,  it  rests  with  you. 

And  yet  to  die  without  confession ! — 

BEATRICE. 

BEATRICE. 

,     ^                                               Well,  follow! 

Oh! 

Believe  that  Heaven  is  merciful  and  just, 

OLIMPIO. 

And  will  not  add  our  dread  necessity 

Hush!    Hark!     What  noise  is  that? 

To  the  amount  of  his  oflTences. 

MARZIO. 

Enter  Olimpio  and  Marzio,  below. 

Ha!  some  one  conies! 

LUCRETIA. 

BEATRICE. 

See, 

Ye  conscience-stricken  cravens,  rock  to  rest 

They  come. 

Your  baby  hearts.     It  is  the  iron  gate, 

BEATRICE. 

Which  ye  left  open,  swinging  to  the  wind. 

All  mortal  things  must  hasten  thus 

That  enters  whistling  as  in  scorn.    Come,  follow ! 

To  their  dark  end.     Let  us  go  down. 

And  be  your  steps  like  mine,  light,  quick,  and  bold. 

[Ezcunt  Lucretia  and  Beatrice  from  above. 

[Exeunt. 

OLIMPIO. 

How  feel  you  to  this  work  1 

. 

MAHZIO. 

As  one  who  thinks 

SCENE  III. 

A  thousand  crowns  excellent  market  price 

.^71  .Apartment  in  the  Castle. 

For  an  old  murderer's  life.     Your  cheeks  are  pale. 

Enter  Beatrice  and  Lucretia. 

OLIMPIO. 

It  is  the  white  reflection  of  your  own, 

LUCRETIA. 

Which  you  call  pale. 

They  are  about  it  now. 

MAHZIO. 

BEATRICE. 

Is  that  their  natural  hue  ] 

Nay,  it  is  done. 

2-2 

P 

170 


THE    CENCI. 


LUCIIKTIA, 

I  have  not  heard  him  groan. 

BEATHICE. 

He  will  not  groan. 

LITIIF-TI  A. 

What  sound  is  that  1 

BEATIIICE. 

List  I  'tis  the  tread  of  feet 
About  his  bed. 

ICCHETIA. 

My  God ! 
If  he  be  now  a  cold  stiff  corpse — 

BEATIIICE. 

O,  fear  not 
^Vhqt  may  be  done,  but  what  is  left  undone  : 
The  act  seals  all. 

Enter  Olimpio  and  Mahzio. 
Is  it  acconipUslied  ] 

MARZIO. 

What? 

OLIMPIO. 

Did  you  not  call  ? 

BEATRICE. 

When? 

OLlMPIO. 

Now. 

BEATRICE. 

I  ask  if  all  is  over  1 

OLIMPIO. 

We  dare  not  kill  an  old  and  sleeping  man; 
His  thin  gray  hair,  his  stern  and  reverent  brow, 
His  veined  hands  crossed  on  his  heaving  breast, 
And  the  calm  innocent  sleep  in  which  he  lay, 
Quelled  me.     Indeed,  indeed,  I  cannot  do  it. 

MAUZIO. 

But  I  was  bolder;  for  I  cliid  Olimpio, 
i    And  bade  him  bear  his  WTongs  to  his  own  grave, 
And  leave  me  the  reward.     And  now  my  knife 
Touched  the  loose  wrinkled  throat,  when  the  old  man 
Stirred  in  his  sleep,  and  said,  "  God !  hear,  O  hear, 
A  father's  curse  !   What,  art  thou  not  our  father?" 
And  then  he  laughed.     I  knew  it  was  the  ghost 
Of  my  dead  falher  si)eaking  through  his  lips, 
And  could  not  kill  him. 

BEATRICE. 

Miserable  slaves ! 
Where,  if  ye  dare  not  kill  a  sleeping  man, 
Found  ye  the  boldness  to  return  to  me 
With  such  a  deed  undone  1     Uase  palterers ! 
Cowards  and  traitors !    Why,  the  verj'  conscience 
Which  ye  would  sell  for  gold  and  for  revenge 
Is  an  e(juivocation :  it  sleeps  over 
A  thousand  daily  acts  disgracing  men ; 
And  when  a  deed,  where  mercy  insults  Heaven — 
Why  do  I  talk ! 

[Snatching  a  dagi^^er  from  nvr  of  tliem,  anil  raising  it. 

Hadst  thou  a  tongue  to  say. 
She  murdered  her  own  father.  I  m\ist  do  it ! 
But  never  dream  ye  shall  outhvc  liim  long ! 


OLIMPIO. 

Stop,  for  God's  sake  ! 

MAR7.IO. 

I  will  go  back  and  kill  him. 

OLIMPIO. 

Give  mc  the  weapon,  we  must  do  thy  will. 

BEATRICE. 

Take  it !    Depart !    Return  ! 

[Ezeunt  Ommtio  and  Marzio. 
How  ])ale  th<m  art ! 
We  do  but  that  which  'twere  a  deadly  crime 
To  leave  undone. 

LUCRETIA. 

Would  it  were  done ! 

BEATRICE. 

Even  whilst 
That  doubt  is  passing  through  your  mind,  the  world 
Is  conscious  of  a  change.     Darkness  and  hell 
Have  swallowed  up  the  vapour  they  sent  forth 
To  blacken  the  sweet  light  of  life.     My  breath 
Comes,  methinks,  lighter,  and  the  jellied  blood 
Runs  freely  through  my  veins.     Hark ! 

Enter  Oli.mpio  and  Marzio. 

He  is — • 

OLIMPIO. 

Dead! 

MARZIO. 

Wc  strangled  him,  that  there  might  be  no  blood ; 
And  then  we  threw  his  heavy  corpse  i'  the  garden 
Under  the  balcony ;  'twill  seem  it  fell. 

iiEATHicE  (givhig  them  a  bag  of  coin, ^ 

Here  take  this  gold,  and  hasten  to  your  homes. 
And,  Marzio,  because  thou  wast  only  awed 
By  that  which  made  me  tremble,  wear  thou  this ! 
[Clothes  him  in  a  rich  mantle. 
It  was  the  mantle  which  my  grandfather 
Wore  ill  his  high  prosperity,  and  men 
En\'ied  his  state  :  so  may  they  envy  thine. 
Thou  wert  a  weapon  in  tlie  hand  of  (iod 
To  a  just  use.     Live  long  and  thrive  !  And,  mark. 
If  thou  hast  criinies,  repent :  tliis  deed  is  none. 

[ji  horni'i  sounded. 

LITHETIA. 

Hark,  'tis  the  castle  horn  :  my  God  !  it  sounds 
Like  the  last  trunij). 

BEATRICE. 

Some  tedious  guest  is  coming. 

LUCRETIA. 

The  drawbridge  is  let  down  ;  there  is  a  tramp 
Of  horses  in  the  court !  fly,  hide  yourselves ! 

[Ezeunt  Oli.mpio  and  Marzio. 
BEATRICE. 

Let  us  retire  to  counterfeit  deep  rest; 

I  scarcely  need  to  counterfeit  it  now ; 

'i'hc  s]iirit  which  doth  reign  within  these  limlis 

Seems  strangely  undisturbed.     I  could  even  sleep 

Fearless  and  calm :  all  ill  is  surely  past, 

[Exeunt. 


THE    CENCL 


171 


SCENE  IV. 

Another  Apartment  in  the  Castle. 

Enter  on  one  side  the  Legate  Savella,  introduced  bxj  a 
Servant,  and  on  the  ot/ier  Lucretia  and  Beiinardo. 

SAVELLA. 

Lady,  my  lUity  to  his  Holiness 

Be  my  excuse  that  thus  unseasonably 

I  break,  upon  your  rest.     I  must  speak  with 

Count  Cenci :  cloth  he  sleep  ] 

LuciiETiA  (in  a  hurried  and  confused  manner.') 
I  think  he  sleeps ; 
Yet,  wake  him  not,  I  pray,  spare  mc  awhile, 
He  is  a  wicked  and  wrathful  man; 
Should  he  be  roused  out  of  his  sleep  to-night, 
Which  is,  I  know,  a  hell  of  angry  dreams. 
It  were  not  well ;  indeed  it  were  not  well. 
Wait  till  daybreak, — 

.    1  •  (^Aside.)  O,  I  am  deadly  sick  ! 

SATELLA. 

I  giieve  thus  to  distress  you,  but  the  Count 
Must  answer  charges  of  the  gravest  import, 
And  suddenly  ;  such  my  commission  is. 

LucHETiA  (^ivifh  increased  agitation.') 
I  dare  not  rouse  him,  I  know  none  who  dare ; 
'Twere  perilous ; — you  might  as  safely  waken 
A  serpent ;  or  a  corpse  in  which  some  fiend 
Were  laid  to  sleep. 

SAVELLA. 

Lady,  my  moments  here 
Are  counted.  I  must  rouse  him  from  his  sleep, 
Since  none  else  dare. 

lucRETiA  (aside.) 

O,  terror !  0,  despair  ! 
(To  Ber:vahdo.)  Bernardo, conduct  you  the  Lord 

Legate  to 
Your  father's  chamber. 

,  [jExeuni  Savella  and  Bernardo. 

"    f  ;  Enter  Beatrice. 

'Tis  a  messenger 
Come  to  arrest  the  culprit  who  now  stands 
Before  the  throne  of  unappealable  God. 
Both  Earth  and  Heaven  conseAting  arbiters, 
Actj^uit  our  deed. 

LUCKETIA. 

Oh,  agony  of  fear  ! 
Would  that  he  yet  might  live  !    Even  now  I  heard 
The  legate's  followers  whisper  as  they  passed 
They  had  a  warrant  for  his  instant  death. 
All  was  prepared  by  unforbidden  means. 
Which  we  must  pay  so  dearly,  having  done. 
Even  now  they  search  the  tower,  and  find  the  body  ; 
Now  they  suspect  the  truth  ;  now  they  consult. 
Before  they  come  to  tax  us  with  the  fact ; 
O  horrible,  'tis  all  discovered ! 

BEATniCE. 

Mother, 
What  is  done  wisely,  is  done  well.     Be  bold 
As  thou  art  just.     'Tis  like  a  truant  child. 
To  fear  that  others  know  what  thou  hast  done, 
.  Even  from  thine  own  strong  consciousness,  and  thus 


Write  on  unsteady  eyes  and  altered  checks 

All  thou  wouldst  iiidc.     Be  faithful  to  thyself, 

And  fear  no  otlier  witness  but  thy  fear. 

For  if,  as  cannot  be,  some  circumstance 

Should  rise  in  accusation,  we  can  blind 

Suspicion  with  such  cheap  astonishment. 

Or  overbear  it  with  such  guiltless  pride, 

As  murderers  cannot  feign.     The  deed  is  done, 

.\nd  what  may  follow  now  regards  not  me. 

I  am  as  universal  as  the  light ; 

Free  as  the  earth-surrounding  air;  as  firm 

As  the  world's  centre.     Consequence,  to  me, 

Is  as  the  wind  which  strilves  the  solid  rock. 

But  shakes  it  not. 

[A  cry  tcitkin  and  tumult. 
VOICES. 
Murder!  Murder!  Murder! 

Enter  Bernardo  and  Savella. 

SAVELLA  (to  his  followers.) 
Go,  search  the  castle  round ;  sound  the  alarm  ! 
Look  to  the  gates,  that  none  escape  ! 

BEATRICE.  ' 

What  now  ? 

BERNARDO. 

I  know  not  what  to  say — my  father's  dead. 

BEATRICE. 

How,  dead  ]  he  only  sleeps ;  you  mistake,  brother. 
His  sleep  is  very  calm,  very  like  death  ; 
'Tis  wonderful  how  well  a  tyrant  sleeps. 
He  is  not  dead  ? 

BERXARDO. 

Dead ;  murdered ! 
LUCRETIA  {with  extreme  agitation.) 

Oh,  no,  no. 
He  is  not  murdered,  thousih  he  may  be  dead  ; 
I  have  alone  the  keys  of  those  apartments. 

SAVELLA. 

Ha  !    Is  it  so  1 

BEATRICE. 

My  lord,  I  pray  excuse  us; 
We  will  retire  ;  my  mother  is  not  well ; 
She  seems  quite  overcome  with  this  strange  horror, 
[Ezeunt  Lucketia  and  Beatrice. 

SAVELLA. 

Can  you  suspect  who  may  have  murdered  him  ? 

BERNARDO. 

I  know  not  what  to  think. 

SAVELLA. 

Can  you  name  any 
Who  had  an  interest  in  his  death  ] 

BERNARDO. 

Alas ! 
I  can  name  none  who  had  not,  and  those  most 
Who  most  lament  that  such  a  deed  is  done ; 
My  mother,  and  my  sister,  and  myself. 

SAVELLA. 

'Tis  strange  !  There  were  clear  marks  of  violence. 
I  found  the  old  man's  body  in  the  moonlight. 
Hanging  beneath  the  window  of  his  chamber 


172 


THE    CENCI. 


Amonc:  tlie  brunches  of  a  pine :  he  could  not 
Have  fallen  there,  for  all  his  liinlis  lay  heaped 
And  effortless;  'tis  true  there  was  no  Mood. — 
Favour  me,  sir — it  nnich  inijwrts  your  house 
That  all  should  he  made  clear — to  tell  the  lailies 
That  I  request  their  presence. 

[F.iii  Beb.nardo. 
£^nlcr  Guards,  bringing  in  Mauzio. 
GCAKIi. 

We  have  one. 


My  lord,  we  found  this  rulhan  and  another 
Lurkinq:  among  the  rocks;  there  is  no  doubt 
But  that  they  arc  the  murderers  of  Count  Ccnci: 
Each  had  a  bag  of  coin  ;  this  fellow  wore 
A  gold-inwoven  robe,  which,  shining  bright 
Under  the  dark  rocks  to  the  glimmering  moon, 
Betrayed  them  to  our  notice  :  the  other  fell 
Desperately  fighting. 

SAVELLA. 

What  does  he  confess  ? 

OFFICER. 

He  keeps  firm  silence ;  but  these  lines  found  on  him 
May  speak. 

SAVF.LLA. 

Their  language  is  at  least  sincere. 

IRends. 

To  THE  Lady  Beatrice. 

"That  the  atonement  of  what  my  nature  sickens 

to  conjecture  may  soon  arrive,  I  send  thee,  at  thy 

brother's  desire,  those  who  will  speak  and  do  more 

than  I  dare  write. 

«  Thy  devoted  servant, 

"  Onsixo." 

Enter  LucRETiA,  nEATRiCE  and  BEnxAUDO. 
Knowest  thou  this  writing,  lady  1 


BEATRICE. 


No. 


SAVELLA. 

Nor  thou  1 

lucRETiA  (Jier  conducf  ihrouffliouf  the  scene  is 
marlad  by  extreme  (igitutiun^ 
Where  was  it  found  1    What  is  it  1     It  should  be 
Orsino's  hand !    "It  speaks  of  that  strange  horror 
Which  never  yet  found  utterance,  but  w^hich  made 
Between  that  hapless  child  and  her  dead  father 
A  gulf  of  obscure  hatred. 

SAVELLA. 

Is  it  so  1 
Is  it  true,  lady,  that  thy  father  did 
Such  oiitrages  as  to  awaken  in  thee 
Unfilial  hate  1 

BEATRICE. 

Not  hate,  'twas  more  than  hate ; 
This  is  most  true,  yet  wherefore  question  me  1 

SAVELLA. 

There  is  a  deed  demanding  question  done; 
Thou  hast  a  secret  which  will  answer  not. 


BEATRICE. 

What  sayest  1     My  lord,  your  words  arc  bold  and 
rash. 

SAVELLA. 

I  do  arrest  all  present  in  the  name 

Of  the  Pope's  Holiness.     You  must  to  Rome. 

LVCRETIA. 

O,  not  to.  Rome !    Indeed  we  are  not  guilty. 

BEATRICE. 

Guilty  !     Who  dares  talk  of  guilt  ?     My  lord, 

I  am  more  innocent  of  parricide, 

Than  is  a  child  born  fatherless.     Dear  mother, 

Your  gentleness  and  patience  are  no  shield 

For  this  kcen-judtjing  world,  tliis  two-edged  lie. 

Which  seems,  but  is  not.    What !  will  human  laws 

Rather  will  yc  who  are  their  ministers. 

Bar  all  access  to  retribution  first, 

And  then,  when  Heaven  doth  interpose  to  do 

What  ye  neglect,  arming  familiar  things 

To  the  redress  of  an  unwonted  crime. 

Make  ye  the  victims  who  demanded  it 

Culprits  ?    'Tis  ye  are  culprits !    That  poor  UTctch 

Who  stands  so  pale,  and  trembling,  and  amazed, 

If  it  be  true  he  murdered  Ccnci,  was 

A  sword  in  the  right  hand  of  justest  God. 

Wherefore  should  I  have  wielded  it  1  unless 

The  crimes  which  mortal  tongue  dare  never  name, 

God  therefore  scrujiles  to  avenge. 


SAVELLA. 


You  own 


That  you  desired  his  death  1 


BEATRICE. 

It  would  have  been 
A  crime  no  less  than  his,  if  for  one  moment 
That  fierce  desire  had  faded  in  my  heart. 
'Tis  true  I  did  believe,  and  hope,  and  pray. 
Ay,  I  even  knew — for  God  is  wise  and  just, 
That  some  strange  sudden  death  hung  over  him. 
'Tis  true  that  this  diil  ba|)pen,  and  most  true 
There  was  no  other  rest  for  me  on  earth. 
No  other  hope  in  Heaven  ; — now  what  of  this  ? 

SAVELLA. 

Strange  thoughts  beget  strange  deeds ;  and  liere 

arc  both  ; 
I  judge  thee  not. 

BEATRICE. 

And  yet,  if  you  arrest  nic. 
You  arc  the  judge  and  executioner 
Of  that  which  is  the  life  of  life :  the  breath 
Of  accusation  kills  an  innocent  name, 
And  leaves  for  lame  ac<|nittul  the  poor  life. 
Which  is  a  mask  without  it.     'Tis  most  false 
That  I  am  guilty  of  foul  parricide ; 
Althou;i:h  I  imist  rejoice,  for  justest  cause. 
That  other  hands  have  sent  my  father's  soul 
To  ask  the  mercy  he  denied  to  mc. 
Now  leave  us  free :  stain  not  a  noble  house 
With  vague  surmises  of  rejected  crime  ; 
Add  to  our  sullerings  and  your  own  neglect 
No  heavier  sum  ;  let  them  have  been  enough  : 
Leave  us  the  wreck  wc  have. 


THE    CENCI. 


173 


SATEI.LA. 

I  dare  not,  lady. 
I  pray  that  you  prepare  yourselves  for  Iloiiic  : 
There  the  Pope's  further  plciisure  will  he  known. 

LUCnETIA. 

0,  not  to  Rome !  O,  take  us  not  to  Rome  ! 

BEATRICE. 

Why  not  to  Rome,  dear  mother !    There,  as  here, 
Our  innorence  is  as  an  armed  heel 
To  tramj>le  accusation.     God  is  there, 
As  here,  and  with  his  shadow  ever  clothes 
The  innocent,  the  injured,  and  the  weak. 
And  such  are  we.     Cheer  up,  dear  lady  !  lean 
On  me  ;  collect  your  wandering  thoughts.  My  lord, 
As  soon  as  you  have  taken  some  refreshment, 
And  had  all  such  examinations  made 
Upon  the  spot,  as  may  be  necessary 
To  the  full  understanding  of  this  matter,     . 
We  shall  be  ready.     Mother,  will  you  come  1 

LUCHETIA. 

Ha !  they  will  bind  us  to  the  rack,  and  wrest 
Self-accusation  from  our  agony  ! 


Will  Giacomo  be  there  1     Orsino  T     Marzio  1 
All  present?   all  confronted  ;  all  demanding 
Each  from  the  other's  countenance  the  thing 
Which  is  in  every  heart !    O,  misery  ! 

,  •  [She  faints,  and  is  borne  nut. 

SAVELI.A. 

She  faints;  an  ill  appearance  this. 

BEATUICE. 

My  lord, 
She  knows  not  yet  the  uses  of  the  world. 
She  fears  that  power  is  as  a  beast  which  gi-asps 
And  loosens  not :  a  snake  whose  look  transmutes 
All  things  to  guilt,  which  is  its  nutriment. 
She  cannot  know  how  well  the  supine  slaves 
Of  blind  authority  read  the  truth  of  things 
When  written  on  a  brow  of  guilelcssness : 
She  sees  not  yet  triumphant  Innocence 
Stand  at  the  judgment-seat  of  mortal  man, 
A  judge  and  an  accuser  of  the  wrong 
Which  drags  it  there.     Prepare  yourself,  my  lord ; 
Our  suite  will  join  yours  in  the  court  below. 

lExewnt. 


ACT  V. 


SCENE  I. 

.^n  .Apartment  in  Orsin'o's  Palace. 
Enter  Onsiyo  and  GiJi-COMO. 

GIACOMO. 

Do  evil  deeds  thus  quickly  come  to  end "? 

O  that  the  vain  remorse  which  must  chastise 

Crimes  done,  had  but  as  loud  a  voice  to  warn. 

As  its  keen  sting  is  mortal  to  avenge  ! 

O  that  the  hour  when  present  had  cast  off 

The  mantle  of  its  mystery,  and  shown 

The  ghastly  forhi  with  which  it  now  returns 

When  its  sacred  game  is  roused,  cheering  the 

hounds 
Of  conscience  to  their  prey !  Alas,  alas ! 
It  was  a  wicked  thought,  a  piteous  deed, 
To  kill  an  old  and  hoary-hcaded  father. 

ORSIXO. 

It  has  turned  out  unluckily,  in  truth. 

GIACOMO. 

To  violate  the  sacred  doors  of  sleep  ; 
To  cheat  kind  nature  of  the  placid  death 
Which  she  prepares  for  overwearied  ago ; 
To  drag  from  Heaven  an  unrepentant  soul. 
Which  might  have  quenched  in  reconcihng  prayers 
A  life  of  burning  crimes — 


I  urged  you  to  the  deed. 


You  cannot  say 


GIACOMO. 

O,  had  I  never 
Found  in  thy  smooth  and  ready  countenance 
The  min-or  of  my  darkest  thoughts ;  hadst  thou 


Never  with  hints  and  questions  made  me  look 
Upon  the  monster  of  my  thought,  until 
It  grew  familiar  to  desire — 

ORSINO. 

'Tis  thus 
Men  cast  the  blame  of  their  unprosperous  acts 
Upon  the  abettors  of  their  own  resolve  : 
Or  any  thing  but  their  weak,  guilty  selves. 
And  yet,  confess  the  truth,  it  is  the  peril 
In  which  j'ou  stand  that  gives  you  this  pale  sick- 
ness 
Of  penitence  ;  confess,  'tis  fear  disguised 
From  its  own  shame  that  takes  the  mantle  now 
Of  thm  remorse.     What  if  we  yet  were  safe  1 

GIACOMO. 

How  can  that  be  1     Already  Beatrice, 
Lucretia,  and  the  murderer,  are  in  prison. 
I  doubt  not  officers  are,  whilst  we  speak, 
Sent  to  arrest  us. 

ORSIXO. 

I  have  all  prepared 
For  instant  flight.     We  can  escape  even  now, 
So  we  take  fleet  occasion  by  the  hair. 

GIACOMO. 

Rather  expire  in  tortures,  as  I  may. 
What  1  will  you  cast  by  self-accusing  flight 
Assured  conviction  upon  Beatrice  1 
She  who  alone,  in  this  unnatural  work. 
Stands  like  God's  angel  ministered  upon 
By  fiends ;  avenging  such  a  nameless  wrong 
As  turns  black  parricide  to  picfy ; 
Whilst  we  for  basest  ends — I  fear,  Orsino, 
While  I  consider  all  vour  words  and  looks, 
p2 


I'A 


THE    CE.XCI. 


L'ompnrinp;  thcin  with  your  proposal  now. 
That  you  iriust  be  a  vilhiin.     For  what  end 
Could  you  i-mjiiRe  in  i^urh  a  perilous  crime, 
Training  nic  on  witli  hints,  and  sis^ns,  ajid  smiles, 
Even  to  this  Rulf  ?     'i'hou  art  no  ILir  !   No, 
Thou  art  a  he!     Traitor  and  murderer! 
Coward  and  slave  !     But  no — defend  thyself; 

[Drawing'. 
Let  the  sword  speak  what  the  indignant  tongue 
Disdains  to  brand  thee  with. 

OIISINO. 

Put  up  your  weapon. 
Is  it  the  desperation  of  j'our  fear 
Makes  you  thus  rash  and  sudden  with  your  friend, 
Now  ruined  for  your  sake  ?     If  honest  anger 
Have  moved  you,  know,  that  what  I  just  proposed 
Was  but  to  try  you.     As  for  me,  I  think 
Thankless  affection  led  nic  to  this  point. 
From  which,  if  my  firm  temper. eould  repent, 
I  caimot  now  recede.     Even  whilst  we  speak. 
The  ministers  of  justice  wait  below : 
They  grant  me  these  brief  moments.   Now,  if  you 
Have  any  word  of  melancholy  comfort 
To  speak  to  your  jjale  wife,  'twere  best  to  pass 
Out  at  the  postern,  and  avoid  them  so. 

GIACO.MO. 

Oh,  generous  friend !  How  canst  tliou  pardon  me  1 
Would  that  my  life  could  purchase  thine ! 

ORSIXO. 

That  wish 
Now  comes  a  day  too  late.  Haste ;  fare  thee  well ! 
Hear' St  thou  not  steps  along  the  corridor  1 

[Exit  GiACOMO. 
I'm  sorry  for  it ;  but  the  guards  are  waiting 
At  his  own  gate,  and  such  was  my  contrivance 
That  I  might  rid  me  both  of  him  and  them. 
I  thought  to  act  a  solemn  comedy 
Upon  the  painted  scene  of  this  new  world, 
And  to  attain  my  own  peculiar  ends 
By  some  such  plot  of  mingled  cood  and  ill 
As  others  weave  ;  but  there  arose  a  Power 
Which  grasped  and  snapped  the  threads  of  my 

device, 
And  turned  it  to  a  net  of  ruin — Ha ! 

[jj  slioul  is  heard. 

Is  that  my  name  I  hear  proclaimed  abroad  1 
But  I  will  pass,  wrdj)t  in  a  vile  disg\iise ; 
Rags  on  my  back,  and  a  false  iiniocence 
Upon  my  face,  through  the  misdeeming  crowd. 
Which  judges  by  what  seems.     'Tis  easy  then, 
For  a  new  name,  and  for  a  country  new, 
And  a  new  life,  fashioned  on  old  desires, 
To  change  the  honours  of  abandoned  Rome. 
And  these  must  be  the  masks  of  that  within, 
AVhich  must  remain  unaltered. — Oh,  I  fear 
'I'hat  what  is  past  will  never  let  me  rest! 
Why,  when  none  else  is  conscious,  but  myself. 
Of  my  misdeeds,  should  my  own  heart's  contempt 
Trouble  me  ?   Have  I  not  the  power  to  fly 
My  own  reproaches?   fSiinll  I  be  the  slave 
Of — what  ?    A  won! !    which  those  of  this  false 

world  I 

Employ  against  cadi  other. not  themselves; 
As  men  wear  tlaggers  not  for  sclf-ofTcncc. 


But  if  I  am  mist;iken,  where  shall  I 
Find  the  disguise  to  hide  me  from  myself, 
As  now  I  skulk  from  every  other  eye  1 


[Exit. 


SCENE  II. 

.4  Hatl  of  Justice. 
Camillo,  Judgbs,  etc.,  are  discovered  seated  ; 

Marzio  is  led  in. 

• 

riHST  junoE. 
.Accused,  do  you  persist  in  your  denial  1 
I  ask  you,  are  you  innocent,  or  guilty  ? 
I  demand  who  vvere  the  participators 
In  your  oflence  1   Speak  truth,  and  the  whole  truth. 

MAIIZIO. 

My  God !  I  did  not  kill  him ;  I  know  nothing ; 
Olimpio  sold  the  robe  to  me  from  which 
You  would  iiifer  my  guilt 

SECOSD  jrnoE. 

Away  with  him ! 

KinST    JUDGE. 

Dare  you,  with  lips  yet  white  from  the  rack's  kiss, 
Speak  false  1   Is  it  so  soft  a  questioner. 
That  you  would  bandy  lover's  talk  with  it. 
Till  it  wind  out  yoiu  lile  and  soul  1  Away  ! 

MAnzio. 
Sparc  me  !  0,  spare  !  I  will  confess. 

FIIIST    JCDGE. 

Then  speak. 
MAnzio. 
I  strangled  him  in  his  sleep. 

nilST    JUDGE. 

Who  urged  you  to  it  1 
MAnzio. 
His  own  son  Giacomo,  and  the  young  prelate 
Orsino  sent  me  to  Pcfrella ;  there 
The  ladies  Beatrice  and  JiUcretia 
Tempted  me  with  a  thousand  crowns,  and  I 
And  my  rompaiiion  forthwith  iiuinlcred  him. 
Now  let  nic  die. 

FIIIST    JT'DGE. 

This  sounds  as  bad  as  truth.     Guards,  there, 
Lead  forth  the  prisoners. 
Enter  Lvchetia,  Ueatrice,  and  Giacomo,  nuarded. 

Look  upon  this  man  ; 
When  did  you  sec  him  last? 

HEATUICK. 

We  never  saw  him. 

MARZIO. 

You  know  me  too  well,  Lady  Beatrice. 

BEATIIICE. 

I  know  thee  !  How  !  where  ?  when  ? 

MAltZIO. 

You  know  'twas  I 
Wliom  you  did  urge  with  menaces  and  bribes 
To  kill  your  father.     When  the  thing  was  done, 


THE    CENCI. 


175 


You  clothed  me  in  a  robe  of  woven  gold, 

Enjoined  us  to  pursue  this  monstrous  crime 

And  bade  me  tlirivc  :  how  1  have  thriven,  you  see. 

By  tlie  severest  forms  of  law;  nay,  even 

You,  mv  Ijord  (uacomo.  Lady  Lucretia, 

To  stretch  a  point  against  the  criminals. 

You  know  that  what  I  speak  is  true. 

The  prisoners  stand  accused  of  parricide. 

[Beatrice  advances  loirards  him  ;  he  covers  his 

I  I)on  such  evidence  as  justifies 

face,  and  shrinks  back  . 

Torture. 

Oh,  dart 

BEATnlCE. 

Tlie  terrible  resentment  of  those  eyes 

What  evidence  1     This  man's  1 

On  the  dread  earth  !  7  urn  them  away  from  me ! 

They  wound  :  'twas  torture  forced  the  truth.    My 

JUDGE. 

liords. 

Even  so. 

Having  said  this,  let  me  be  led  to  death. 

BEATRICE   (^Tu  MaKZIO.) 

IIEATIIICE. 

Come  near.  And  who  art  thou,  thus  chosen  forth 

Poor  wretch,  I  pity  thee  :  yet  stay  awhile. 

Out  of  the  multitude  of  living  men, 

CAMILLO. 

To  kill  the  innocent  T 

Guards,  lead  him  not  away. 

MAHZIO. 

BEATIIICE. 

I  am  Marzio, 

Cardinal  Camillo, 

Thy  father's  vassal. 

You  have  a  good  repute  for  gentleness 

And  wisdom  :  can  it  be  that  you  sit  here 

To  countenance' a  wicked  farce  like  this? 

When  some  obscure  and  trembling  slave  is  dragged 

From  sufferings  which  might  shake  the  sternest 

heart, 
And  hade  to  answer,  not  as  he  believes, 
But  as  those  may  suspect  or  do  desire, 
Whose  questions  thence  suggest  their  own  reply  : 
And  that  in  peril  of  such  hideous  torments 
As  merciful  God  spares  even  the  damned.  Speak  now 
Tlie  thing  you  surely  know,  which  is,  that  you, 
If  your  fine  frame  were  stretched  upon  that  wheel, 
And  you  were  told,  "  Confess  that  you  did  poison 
Your  little  nephew :  that  fair  blue-eyed  child 
Who  was  the  load-star  of  your  life;"  and  though 
All  see,  since  his  most  swift  and  piteous  death. 
That  day  and  night,  and  heaven  and  earth,  and  time, 
And  all  the  things  hoped  lor  or  done  therein. 
Are  changed  to  you,  through  your  exceeding  grief, 
Yet  you  would  say,  "I  confess  any  thing" — 
And  beg  from  your  tormentors,  like  that  slave. 
The  refuge  of  dishonourable  death. 
I  pray  thee,  Cardinal,  that  thou  assert 
My  innocence. 

CAJHLLo   (jtiiich  moved.') 

Wliat  shall  we  think,  my  lords  ? 
Shame  on  these  tears !     I  thought  the  heart  was 

frozen 
Which  is  their  fountain.     I  would  pledge  my  soul 
That  she  is  guiltless. 

JUDfiE. 

Yet  she  must  be  tortured. 

CAMILLO. 

I  would  as  soon  have  tortured  mine  own  nephew 
(If  he  now  hved,  he  would  be  just  her  age  ; 
His  hair,  too,  was  her  colour,  and  his  eyes 
Like  hers  in  shape,  but  blue,  and  not  so^eep :) 
As  that  most  perfect  image  of  God's  lo\^o 
That  ever  came  sorrowing  upon  the  earth. 
She  is  as  pure  as  speechless  infimcy  ! 

JUDGE. 

Well,  be  her  purity  on  your  head,  my  lord, 
If  you  forbid  the  rack.     His  Holiness 


BEATRICE. 


Fix  thine  eyes  on  mine ; 
Answer  to  what  I  ask. 

[Turninn-  to  the  Judges. 
I  prithee  mark 
His  countenance:  unlike  bold  calumny. 
Which  sometimes  dares  not  speak  the  thing  it  looks, 
He  dares  not  look  the  thing  he  speaks,  but  bends 
His  gaze  on  the  blind  earth. 

(To  Marzio.)   What!  wilt  thou  say 
That  I  did  murder  my  own  father  ! 

■-.>  marzio. 

Oh! 
Spare  ■  me  !    My  brain   swims   round — I   cannot 

speak — ■ 
It  was  that  horrid  torture  forced  the  truth. 
Take  me  away  !  Let  her  not  look  on  me ! 
I  am  a  guilty  miserable  WTetch ! 
I  have  said  all  I  know  ;  now,  let  me  die  ! 

BEATRICE. 

My  lords,  if  by  my  nature  I  had  been 

So  stern,  as  to  have  planned  the  crime  alleged, 

Which  your  suspicions  dictate  to  this  slave. 

And  the  rack  makes  him  utter,  do  you  think 

I  should  have  loft  this  two-edged  instrument 

Of  my  misdeed;  this  man;  this  bloody  knife, 

With  my  own  name  engraved  on  the  hefl, 

Lying  unsheathed  amid  a  world  of  foes, 

For  my  own  death  ?  That  with  such  horrible  need 

For  deepest  silence,  I  should  have  neglected 

So  trivial  a  precaution,  as  the  making 

His  tomb  the  keeper  of  a  secret  written 

On  a  thief's  memory]     What  is  his  poor  life? 

What  are  a  thousand  lives  1     A  pamcide 

Had  trampled  them  hke  dust ;  and  see,  he  lives ! 

[Turning  to  Marzio. 
And  thou — 


Oh,  spare  me  !  Speak  to  me  no  more  ! 
That  stem  yet  piteous  look,  those  solemn  tones, 
Wound  worse  than  torture. 

(To  fhe  Judges.)  I  have  told  it  all ; 
For  pity's  sake  lead  me  away  to  death. 


i76 


THE    CENCI. 


CAMtLI.0. 

Guards,  load  him  iirarrr  the  lady  Bratri>'0, 
He  shrinks  from  her  regard  like  uutuinirs  loaf 
From  the  keen  breath  of  the  screncst  north. 

BEATIlirE. 

Oh,  thou  who  tremlilest  on  the  giddy  verge 

Of  life  and  death,  pause  ere  thou  answcrcst  mc ; 

So  inayst  thou  answer  God  with  less  dismay: 

What  evil  have  we  done  thee  ?     I,  alas! 

Have  lived  but  on  this  earth  a  few  sad  years, 

And  so  my  lot  was  ordered,  that  a  father 

First  turned  the  moments  of  awakening  life 

To  drops,  each  poisoning  youth's  sweet  hope ;  and 

then 
Stabbed  with  one  Mow  my  everlasting  soul, 
And  my  untainted  fame  ;  and  even  that  peace 
Which  sleeps  within  the  core  of  the  heart's  heart. 
But  the  wound  was  not  mortal ;  so  my  hate 
Became  the  only  worship  I  could  lift 
To  our  great  Father,  who  in  pity  and  love, 
Armed  thee,  as  thou  dost  say,  to  cut  him  off; 
And  thus  his  wrong  becomes  my  accusation: 
And  art  thou  the  accuser?     If  thou  hopest 
Mercy  in  heaven,  show  justice  upon  earth  : 
Worse  than  a  bloody  hand  is  a  hard  hi-art. 
If  thou  hast  done  murders,  made  thy  life's  path 
Over  the  trampled  laws  of  God  and  man. 
Rush  not  before  thy  Judge,  and  say, :  "  My  Maker, 
I  have  done  this  and  more ;  for  there  was  one 
Who  was  most  pure  and  innocent  on  earth ; 
And  because  she  endured  what  never  any, 
Guilty  or  innocent,  endured  before ; 
Because  her  wrongs  could  not  be  told,  nor  thought; 
Because  thy  hand  at  length  did  rescue  her; 
I  with  my  words  killed  her  and  all  her  kin." 
Think,  I  adjure  you,  what  it  is  to  slay 
The  reverence  living  in  the  minds  of  men 
Towards  our  ancient  house,  and  stainless  fame  ! 
Think  what  it  is  to  strangle  infant  jiity. 
Cradled  in  the  belief  of  guileless  looks. 
Till  it  becomes  a  crime  to  sufTcr.     Think 
What  'tis  to  blot  with  infamy  and  blood 
All  that  which  shows  like  innocence,  and  is, — 
Hear  me,  great  God !  I  swear,  most  innocent, — 
So  that  the  world  lose  all  descrimination 
Between  the  sly,  fierce,  wild  regard  of  guilt. 
And  that  which  now  compels  thee  to  reply 
To  what  I  ask :  Am  I,  or  am  I  not 
A  parricide  t 


Thou  art  not  ? 


What  is  this  ] 


MAnzio. 

I  here  declare  those  whom  I  did  accuse 
Are  innocent.     'Tis  I  alone  am  guilty. 

jvnriF.. 
Drag  him  away  to  torments;  let  them  be 
Subtle  and  long  drawn  out,  to  tear  the  folds 
Of  the  heart's  inmost  cell.     Unbind  him  not 
Till  he  confess. 


MARZIO. 

Torture  me  as  you  will : 
A  keener  pain  has  wrung  a  higher  truth 
From  my  last  breath.     She  is  most  innocent ! 
Blon<llu)unds,  not  men,  glut  yourselves  well  with  me! 
I  will  not  give  you  that  line  j)iece  of  nature 
To  rend  and  ruin.  [Eiif'M/i.nzio,  guarded. 

CAMILLO. 

What  say  yc  now,  my  lords  ! 
Jinr.K. 
Let  tortures  strain  the  truth  till  it  be  white 
As  snow  thrice-sifted  by  the  frozen  wind. 

CAMILLO. 

Yet  stained  with  blood. 

JUDGE   (to  BeaTHICE.) 

Know  you  this  paper,  lady  ? 

BEATHICE. 

Entrap  me  not  with  questions.     MHio  stands  here 
As  my  accuser?   Ha!  wilt  thou  be  he. 
Who  art  my  judge  1     Accuser,  witness,  judge, 
What,  all  in  one  ?   Here  is  Orsini's  name ; 
Where  is  Orsini  ?     Let  his  eye  meet  mine. 
W'hat  means  this  scrawl  ?  Alas  !  ye  know  not  what, 
And  therefore  on  the  chance  that.it  may  be 
Some  evil,  will  yc  kill  us  ? 

Enter  an  Officer. 

OFFICER. 

Marzio's  dead. 

JUDGE. 

What  did  he  say  ? 

OFFICER. 

Nothing,     As  soon  as  we 
Had  bound  him  on  the  wheel,  he  smiled  on  us, 
As  one  who  batlles  a  deep  adversary  ; 
And  holding  his  breath,  died. 

JUDOK. 

There  remains  nothing 
But  to  apply  the  question  to  those  prisoners, 
Who  yet  remaui  stubborn. 

CAMILLO. 

I  overrule 
Further  proceedings,  and  in  the  behalf 
Of  these  most  innocent  and  noble  persons 
Will  use  my  interest  with  the  Holy  Father. 

JUDGE. 

Let  the  Pope's  pleasure  then  be  done.  Meanwhile 
Conduct  these  culprits  each  to  separate  cells; 
And  be  the  engines  ready :  for  this  night, 
If  the  Pope's  resolution  be  as  grave, 
Pious,  and  just  as  once,  I'll  wring  the  truth 
Out  of  those  nerves  and  sinews,  groan  by  groan. 

[Exeunt. 


•  SCENE  IIL 

The  Cell  of  a  Prison. 

Beatuice  is  discovered  asleep  on  a  coueh. 

Enter  Bernabdo. 

BEnxAimo. 

How  gently  slumber  rests  upon  her  face. 

Like  the  last  thoughts  of  some  day  sweetly  spent, 


THE    CENCI. 


177 


Closing  in  night  and  dreams,  and  so  prolonged. 
After  such  tonnonts  as  she  liorc  last  night, 
How  liiiht  and  soft  her  breathing  comes.  Ah,  me! 
Methiuks  that  I  shall  never  sleep  again. 
But  I  must  shake  the  heavenly  dew  of  rest 
From  this  sweet  folded  flower,  thus — waktj ;  awake ; 
What,  sister,  canst  tliou  sleep  1 

beathice  (awaki)m.) 

I  was  just  dreaming 
That  we  were  all  in  Paradise.     Thou  knowcst 
This  cell  seems  like  a  kind  of  Paradise 
After  oiu'  father's  presence. 

BERNARDO. 

Dear,  dear  sister, 
Would  that  thy  dream  were  not  a  dream  !  0,  God  ! 
How  shall  I  tell  ? 

BEATRICE. 

What  would'st  thou  tell,  sweet  brother  7 

BERNARDO. 

Look  not  so  calm  and  happy,  or  even  whilst 
I  stand  considering  what  I  have  to  say, 
My  heart  will  break. 

BEATRICE. 

See  now,  thou  makest  me  weep : 
How  very  friendless  thou  wouldst  be,  dear  child, 
If  I  were  dead.     Say  what  thou  hast  to  say. 

BERNARDO. 

They  have  confessed ;  they  could  endure  no  more 
The  tortures —  •    , 

BEATRICE. 

Ha !   What  was  there  to  confess  1 
Thcv  must  have  told  some  weak  and  wicked  lie 
To  flatter  their  tormentors.     Have  they  said 
That  they  were  guilty  T   O  white  innocence, 
That  thou  shouldst  wear  the  mask  of  guilt  to  hide 
Thine  awful  and  serenest  countenance 
From  those  who  know  thee  not ! 

Enter  Judge,  with  Lucbetia  and  Giacovo,  guarded. 

Ignoble  hearts; 
For  some  brief  spasms  of  pain,  which  are  at  least 
As  mortal  as  the  limbs  through  which  they  pass, 
Are  centuries  of  high  splendour  laid  in  dust] 
And  that  eternal  honour  which  should  live 
Suidike,  above  the  reek  of  mortal  fame. 
Changed  to  a  mockery  and  a  by-word  1     What ! 
Will  you  give  up  these  bodies  to  be  dragged 
At  horses'  heels,  so  that  our  hair  should  sweep 
The  footsteps  of  the  vain  and  senseless  crowd, 
Who,  that  they  may  make  our  calamity 
Their  worship  and  their  spectacle,  will  leave 
The  churches  and  the  theatres  as  void 
As  their  own  hearts?     Shall  the  light  multitude 
Fling  at  their  choice,  curses  or  faded  pity. 
Sad  funeral  flowers  to  deck  a  living  corpse. 
Upon  us  as  we  pass,  to  pass  away, 
And  leave — what  memory  of  our  having  been  1 
Infamy,  blood,  terror,  despair  1   O  thou,  ' 

Who  wert  a  mother  to  the  parentless, 
Kill  not  thy  child !  Let  not  her  wrongs  kill  thee  ! 
Brother,  he  down  with  me  upon  the  rack, 
23 


And  let  us  each  be  silent  as  a  corpse  ; 

It  soon  will  be  as  soft  as  any  grave. 

'Tis  but  the  falsehood  it  can  wring  from  fear 

Makes  the  rack  cruel. 

GIACOMO. 

They  will  tear  the  truth 
Even  from  thee  at  last,  those  cruel  pains  : 
For  pity's  sake  say  thou  art  guilty  now. 

LUCRETIA. 

O,  speak  the  truth  !  Let  us  all  quickly  die ; 
And  after  death,  God  is  oUr  judge,  not  they; 
He  will  have  mercy  on  us. 

BERNARDO, 

If  indeed 
It  can  he  true,  say  so  dear  sister  mine ; 
And  then  the  Pope  will  surely  pardon  you, 
And  all  be  well. 

JUDGE. 

Confess,  or  I  will  warp 
Your  Umbs  with  such  keen  tortures — 

BEATRICE. 

Tortures!  Turn 
The  rack  henceforth  into  a  spinning-wheel ! 
Torture  your  dog,  that  he  may  tell  when  last 
He  lapped  the  blood  his  master  shed — not  me  ! 
My  pangs  are  of  the  mind,  and  of  the  heart, 
And  of  the  soul ;  ay,  of  the  inmost  soul, 
Which  weeps  within  tears  as  of  burning  gall 
To  see,  in  this  ill  world  where  none  are  true. 
My  kindred  false  to  their  deserted  selves. 
And  with  considering  all  the  wretched  life 
Which  I  have  lived,  and  its  now  \vTetched  end ; 
And  the  small  justice  shown  by  Heaven  and  Earth 
To  me  or  mine  ;  and  what  a  tyrant  thou  art, 
And  what  slaved  these ;  and  what  a  world  we  make. 
The  oppressor    and    the   oppressed — such  pangs 

compel 
My  answer.     What  is  it  thou  wouldst  with  me  1 


Art  thou  not  guilty  of  thy  father's  death  1 

BEATRICE. 

Or  wilt  thou  rather  tax  high-judging  God 

That  he  permitted  such  an  act  as  that 

Which  I  have  suffered,  and  which  he  beheld ; 

Made  it  unutterable,  and  took  from  it 

All  refuge,  all  revenge,  all  consequence. 

But  that  which  thou  hast  called  my  father's  death? 

Which  is  or  is  not  what  men  call  a  crime, 

Which  either  I  have  done,  or  have  not  done ; 

Say  what  ye  will.     I  shall  deny  no  more. 

If  ye  desire  it  thus,  thus  let  it  be. 

And  so  an  end  of  all.     Now  do  your  will  ;• 

N'o  other  pains  shall  force  anotlicr  word. 

JUDGE. 

She  is  convicted,  but  has  not  confessed. 

Be  it  enough.     Until  their  final  sentence 

Let  none  have  converse  with  them.     You,  young 

Linger  not  here  !  [lord, 

BEATRICE. 

O,  tear  him  not  away  ! 


178 


THE    CENCI. 


Guard:; !  do  your  duty. 

BEUNARDo  (^cnilir(tct»<^  UriTnicr..") 
Oil  !  would  yc  divide 
Body  from  soul ! 

OFFICER. 

That  is  the  iieadsman's  business. 
[Ez(unt  all  but  LicniiTiA,  Beatrice,  and  Giacomo. 

OlACOMO. 

Have  I  confessed  ?     Is  it  all  over  now  1 
IS'o  hope !  ?n'o  refuge  !   O  weak,  wicked  tongue, 
Which  hast  destroyed  me,  would  that  thou  hadst  been 
Cut  out  ami  thrown  to  dogs  first !  To  have  killed 
My  father  first,  and  then  betrayed  my  sister  ; 
Ay,  thee  !  the  one  thing  innocent  and  pure 
In  this  black,  g:uilty  world,  to  that  which  I 
So  well  deserve !   My  wife !   my  little  ones  ! 
Destitute,  helpless ;  and  I — Father !  God  ! 
Canst  thou  forgive  even  the  unforgiving. 
When  their  full  heart^j  break  thus,  thus  ] — 

[Cotcrd  his  face  and  ueeps. 

luchetia. 

O,  my  child  ! 
To  what  a  dreadful  end  are  we  all  come  ! 
Why  did  I  yield  ?   Why  did  I  not  sustain 
Those  torments  1   Oh!  that  I  were  all  dissolved 
Into  these  fast  and  unavailing  tears, 
Which  flow  and  feel  not ! 

bf.athicf.. 

What  'twas  weak  to  do, 
'Tis  weaker  to  lament,  once  being  done  ; 
Take  cheer !  The  God  who  knew  my  wrong,  and 
Our  speedy  act  the  angel  of  his  wTath,  [made 

Seems,  and  but  seems,  to  have  abandoned  us. 
Let  us  not  think  that  we  shall  die  for  this. 
Brother,  sit  near  me;  give  me  your  firm  hand, 
You  had  a  manly  heart     Bear  up  !  bear  up  ! 
Oh !  dearest  lady,  j)ut  your  gentle  head 
Upon  my  lap,  and  try  to  sleep  awhile  : 
Your  eyes  look  [lalo,  hollow,  and  overworn, 
With  heaviness  of  watching  and  slow  grief. 
Come,  I  will  sing  you  some  low,  sleepy  tune, 
Not  cheerful,  nor  yet  sad ;  some  dull  old  thing, 
Some  outworn  and  unused  monotony. 
Such  as  our  country  gossips  sing  and  spin, 
Till  they  almost  forget  they  live  :  lie  down  ! 
So  ;  that  will  do.     Have  I  forsrot  the  words  ? 
Faith  !  they  are  sadder  than  I  thought  they  were. 


False  friend,  wilt  thou  smile  or  weep 
When  my  life  is  laid  asleep  1 
Little  cares  for  a  smile  or  a  tear. 
The  clay-cidd  corpse  upon  the  bier  ; 

Farewell!   Hei-h  ho! 

What  is  this  whispers  low  1 
There  is  a  snake  in  thy  smile,  my  dear  : 
And  bitter  poison  within  thy  tear. 

Sweet  slee[i !  were  death  like  to  thee, 
Or  if  thou  couldst  mortal  be, 


I  would  close  these  eyes  of  pain ; 
When  to  wake  ?   Never  again. 

O  World  !  farewell ! 

Listen  to  the  passing  bell  ! 
It  says,  thou  and  I  must  part, 
Willi  a  slight  and  a  heavy  heart. 

[The  scene  closes. 


SCENE  IV. 

j1  Hall  of  the  Prhon. 
Enter  Camillo  and  Bernardo. 


The  Pope  is  stern ;  not  to  be  moved  or  bent 

He  looked  as  calm  and  keen  as  is  the  engine 

Which  tortures  and  wliith  kills,  exempt  it^self 

From  aught  that  it  inflicts  ;  a  marble  form, 

A  rite,  a  law,  a  custom  ;  not  a  man. 

He  frowned,  as  if  to  frown  had  been  the  trick 

Of  his  machinery,  on  the  advocates 

Presenting  the  defences,  which  he  tore 

And  threw  behind,  muttering  with  hoarse,  harsh 

voice  : 
"  Which  among  ye  defended  their  old  father 
Killed  in  his  sleep  ?"  Then  to  anotlier :  "  Thou 
Dost  this  in  virtue  of  thy  place ;  'tis  well." 
He  turned  to  me  then,  looking  deprecation, 
And  said  these  three  words,  coldly  :  "  They  must 

die." 

BF.RXARDO. 

And  yet  you  left  him  ! 


I  urged  him  still ; 
Pleading,  as  I  could  guess,  the  de^^lish  wrong 
Which  prom]itcd  your  unnatural  parent's  death. 
And  he  re|)lied,  "  Paolo  Santa  Croce 
Murdered  his  mother  yester  evening, 
And  he  is  fled.     Parricitlc  grows  so  rife, 
That  soon,  for  some  just  cause  no  doubt  the  young 
Will  strangle  us  all,  dozing  in  our  chairs. 
Authority,  and  power,  and  hoary  hair 
Are  grown  crimes  capit;d.     You  are  my  nephew, 
You  come  to  ask  their  pardon  :  stay  a  moment ! 
Here  is  their  sentence ;  never  see  me  more 
Till,  to  the  letter,  it  be  all  fulfilled." 

BKUNARDO. 

O,  God,  not  SO !  I  did  believe  indeed 

That  all  you  said  was  but  sad  preparation 

For  hap[)y  news.     O,  there  are  words  and  looks 

']'o  bend  the  sternest  purpose  !  Once  I  knew  them, 

Now  I  forget  them  at  my  dearest  need. 

What  think  you  if  I  seek  him  out,  and  bathe 

His  feet  and  rol)e  with  hot  and  liitter  tears  ? 

Iinportuiie  liiin  with  ]>rayers,  vexing  his  brain 

With  my  perpetual  cries,  until  in  rage 

He  strike  me  with  his  pastoral  cross,  and  trample 

Upon  my  prostrate  head,  so  that  my  blood 

May  sUiiii  the  senseless  dust  on  which  he  treads, 

And  remorse  waken  mercy  1  I  will  do  it! 

O,  wait  till  I  return  !  [Hushes  out. 


THE    CENCI. 


179 


CAMILLO. 

Alas  !  poor  hoy ! 
A  wrork-dovotod  seaman  thus  niight  pray 
To  the  deaf  sea. 

Enter  Lucretia,  Beatrice  and  Giacomo  guarded. 

BEATRICK. 

I  hardly  dare  to  fear 
That  thou  bringest  otlicr  news  than  a  just  pardon. 

CAMILLO. 

May  God  in  heaven  be  less  inexorable 
To  the  Pope's  prayers,  than  he  has  been  to  mine. 
Here  is  the  sentence  and  the  warrant. 
BEATRICE  (wildly.) 

Oh, 
My  God  !   Can  it  be  possible  I  have 
To  die  so  suddenly  ]   So  young  to  go 
Under  the  obscure,  cold,  rotting,  wormy  ground  ! 
To  be  nailed  down  into  a  narrow  place ; 
To  see  no  more  sweet  sunshine  ;  hear  no  more 
Blithe  voice  of  living  thing  ;  muse  not  again 
Upon  familiar  thoughts,  sad,  yet  thus  lost ! 
How  fearful !  to  be  nothing !   Or  to  be — ■ 
What !   O,  where  am  I  ]   Let  me  not  go  mad  ! 
Sweet  Heaven,  forgive  weak  thoughts  !  If  there 

should  be 
No  God,  no  Heaven,  no  Earth  in  the  void  vporld ; 
The  wide,  gray,  lampless,  deep,  unpeopled  world  ! 
If  all  things  then  should  be — my  father's  spirit, 
His  eye,  his  voice,  his  touch  surrounding  me ; 
The  atmosphere  and  breath  of  my  dead  life  ! 
If  sometimes,  as  a  shape  more  like  himself, 
Even  the  form  which  tortured  me  on  earth, 
Masked- in  gray  hairs  and  wrinkles,  he  should  come, 
And  wind  me  in  his  hellish  arms,  and  fix 
His  eyes  on  mine,  and  drag  me  down,  down,  down ! 
For  was  he  not  alone  omnipotent 
On  Earth,  and  ever  present  1   even  though  dead, 
Does  not  his  spirit  live  in  all  that  breathe. 
And  work  for  me  and  mine  still  the  saaie  ruin. 
Scorn,  pain,  despair?   Who  ever  yet  returned 
To  teach  the  laws  of  death's  untrodden  realm  ] 
Unjust  perhaps  as  those  which  drive  us  now, 
O,  whither,  whither  ] 

LUCRETIA. 

Trust  in  God's  sweet  love, 
The  tender  promises  of  Christ:  ere  night 
Think  we  shall  be  in  Paradise. 

BEATRICE. 

'Tis  past ! 
Whatever  comes,  my  heart  shall  sink  no  more. 
And  yet,  I  know  not  why,  your  words  strike  chill : 
How  tedious,  false,  and  cold  seem  all  things  !  I 
Have  met  with  much  injustice  in  this  world ; 
No  difference  has  been  made  by  God  or  man, 
Or  any  power  moulding  my  wretched  lot, 
'Twixt  good  or  evil,  as  reg:mled  me. 
I  am  cut  off  from  the  only  world  I  know. 
From  light,  and  life,  and  love,  in  youth's  sweet  prime. 
You  do  well  telling  me  to  trust  in  God ; 
I  hope  I  do  trust  in  him.     In  whom  else 
Can  any  trust  ?  And  yet  my  heart  is  cold. 

[^During  the  latter  speeches  Giacomo  has  retired  con- 
versing with  CxiiiLLO,  who  now  goes  out;  Gia- 
como advances. 


Know  you  not,  mother — sister,  know  you  not 
Bernardo  even  now  is  gone  to  implore 
The  Pope  to  grant  our  pardon  1 

LUCRETIA. 

Child,  perhaps 
It  will  be  granted.     We  may  all  then  live 
To  make  these  woes  a  tale  for  distant  years : 
O,  what  a  thought !  It  gushes  to  my  heart 
Like  the  warm  blood. 


Yet  both  will  soon  be  cold  : 
O,  trample  out  that  thought !   Worse  than  despair, 
Worse  than  the  bitterness  of  death,  is  hope : 
It  is  the  only  ill  which  can  find  place 
Upon  the  giddy,  sharp,  and  narrow  hour 
Tottering  beneath  us.     Plead  with  the  swift  frost 
That  it  should  spare  the  eldest  flower  of  spring : 
Plead  with  awakening  earthquake,  o'er  whose  couch 
Even  now  a  city  stands,  strong,  fair,  and  free ; 
Now  stench  and  blackness  yawns,  like  death.     O, 
With  fliminc,  or  wind-vi'alking  pestilence,    [plead, 
Blind  lightning,  or  the  deaf  sea,  not  with  man ! 
Cruel,  cold,  formal  man :  righteous  in  words, 
In  deeds  a  Cain.     No,  Mother,  we  must  die ; 
Since  such  is  the  reward  of  innocent  lives ; 
Such  the  alleviation  of  worst  wrongs. 
And  whilst  our  murderers  live,  and  hard,  cold  men, 
Smiling  and  slow,  walk  through  a  world  of  tears 
To  death,  as  to  life's  sleep;  'twere  just  the  grave 
Were  some  strange  joy  for  us.  Come,  obscure  Death, 
And  wind  me  in  thine  all-embracing  arms ! 
Like  a  fond  mother  hide  me  in  thy  bosom. 
And  rock  me  to  the  sleep  from  which  none  wake. 
Live  ye,  who  live,  subject  to  one  another 
As  we  were  once,  who  now — 

Bernardo  rushes  in. 

BEHXAHDO. 

O,  horrible ! 
That  tears,  that  looks,  that  hope  poured  forth  in 
Even  till  the  heart  is  vacant  and  despairs,  [prayer, 
Should  all  be  vain  !  The  ministers  of  death 
Arc  waiting  round  the  doors.     I  thought  I  saw 
Blood  on  the  face  of  one — what  if  'twere  fancy  1 
Soon  the  heart's  blood  of  all  I  love  on  earth 
Will  sprinkle  him,  and  he  will  wipe  it  off 
As  if  'twere  only  rain.     0,  life  !  O,  world ! 
Cover  me  !  let  me  be  no  more  !  To  see 
That  perfect  mirror  of  pure  innocence 
Wherein  I  gazed,  and  grew  happy  and  good, 
Shivered  to  dust !  To  see  thee,  Beatrice, 
Who  made  all  lovely  thou  didst  look  upon — 
Thee,  light  of  life — dead,  dark  !  while  I  say,  sister, 
To  hear  I  have  no  sister ;  and  thou.  Mother, 
Whose  love  was  a  bond  to  all  our  loves — 
Dead !  The  sweet  bond  broken  ! 

Enter  Camillo  and  Guards. 

They  come  !  Let  me 
Kiss  those  warm  lips  before  their  crimson  leaves 
Arc  blighted — white — cold.     Say  farewell,  before 
Death  chokes  that  gentle  voice  !  O  let  me  hear 
You  speak ! 


180 


EDITOUS    NOTE    ON    THE    CENCI. 


BEATRICE. 

Farewell,  my  tender  brother.     Think 
Of  our  sad  fate  with  irentloness,  as  now: 
And  let  mild,  pitying  thoughts  lighten  for  thee 
Thy  sorrow's  load.     Err  not  in  har.-ih  despair, 
But  tears  and  patience.    One  thing  more,  my  child: 
For  thine  own  sake  be  constant  to  the  lo\e 
Thou  bearest  us ;  and  to  the  faith  that  I, 
Though  wrapt  in  a  strange  cloud  of  crime  and 

shame, 
Lived  ever  holy  and  unstained.     And  though 
111  tongues  shall  wound  me,  and  our  common  name 
Be  as  a  mark  stamped  on  thine  innocent  brow 
For  men  to  pouit  at  as  they  pass,  do  thou 
Forbear,  and  never  think  a  thought  unkind 
Of  those  who  perhaps  love  thee  in  their  graves. 


So  mayest  thou  die  as  I  do ;  fear  and  pain 
Being  suWucd.     Farewell !  Farewell !  Farewell ! 

BERNAIIDO. 

I  cannot  say  farewell ! 

CAMILLO. 

0,  Lady  Beatrice ! 

BEATRICE. 

Give  yourself  no  unnecessary  pain. 

My  dear  Lord  Cardinal.     Here,  Mother,  tie 

My  girdle  for  me,  and  bind  up  this  hair 

In  any  simple  knot :  ay,  that  does  well. 

And  yours  I  see  is  coming  down.     How  often 

Have  we  done  this  for  one  another !  now 

We  shall  not  do  it  any  more.     My  Lord, 

We  are  quite  ready.     Well,  'tis  very  well. 


NOTE  ON  THE  CENCI. 


BY  THE  EDITOR. 


The  sort  of  mistake  that  Shelley  made,  as  to 
the  extent  of  his  own  genius  and  powers,  which 
led  him  deviously  at  first,  but  lastly  into  the  direct 
track  that  enabled  him  fully  to  develope  them,  is  a 
curious  instance  of  his  modesty  of  feeling,  and  of 
the  methods  which  the  human  mind  uses  at  once 
to  deceive  itself,  and  yet,  in  its  very  delusion,  to 
make  its  way  out  of  error  into  the  path  whicli 
nature  has  marked  out  as  its  right  one.  He  often 
incited  me  to  attempt  the  \vriting  a  tragedy — ^hc 
conceived  that  I  possessed  some  dramatic  talent, 
and  he  was  always  most  earnest  and  energetic  in 
his  exhortations  that  I  should  cultivate  any  talent 
I  possessed,  to  the  utmost.  I  entertained  a  truer 
estimate  of  my  powers ;  and,  above  all,  though  at 
that  time  not  exactly  aware  of  the  fact,  I  was  far 
too  young  to  have  any  chance  of  succeeding,  even 
moderately,  in  a  species  of  composition,  that  re- 
quires a  greater  scope  of  experience  in,  and  sym- 
pathy with,  human  passion  than  could  then  have 
fallen  to  my  lot,  or  than  any  perhaps,  except 
Shelley,  ever  pos.sessed,  even  at  the  age  of  twenty- 
six,  at  which  he  wrote  the  Cenci. 

On  the  other  hand,  Shelley  most  erroneously 
conceived  himself  to  be  destitute  of  this  talent. 
He  believed  that  one  of  the  first  requisites  was  the 
capacity  of  forming  and  following  up  a  story  or 
plot.  He  fancied  himself  to  be  defective  in  this 
portion  of  imagination — it  was  that  which  gave 
him  least  pleasure  in  the  writings  of  others — though 
he  laid  great  store  by  it,  as  the  proper  framework 
to  support  the  sublimcst  efforts  of  poetry.  He 
asserted  that  he  was  too  metaphysical  and  abstract 
— too  fond  of  the  theoretical  and  the  ideal,  to  suc- 


ceed as  a  tragedian.  It  perhaps  is  not  strange  that 
I  shared  this  opiidon  with  himself,  for  he  had 
hitherto  shown  no  inclination  for,  nor  given  any 
specimen  of  his  powers  in  framing  and  supporting 
the  interest  of  a  story,  either  in  prose  or  verse. 
Once  or  twice,  when  he  attempted  such,  he  had 
speedily  thrown  it  aside,  as  being  even  disagreeable 
to  him  as  an  occupation. 

The  subject  he  had  suggested  for  a  tragedy  was 
Charles  I.,  and  he  had  written  to  me,  "  Remember, 
remember  Charles  I.  I  have  been  already  imagin- 
ing how  you  would  conduct  some  scenes.  The 
second  volume  of  St.' Leon  begins  with  this  proud 
and  true  sentiment,  'There  is  nothing  which  the 
human  mind  can  conceive  which  it  may  not  exe- 
cute.' Shakspeare  was  only  a  human  being." 
These  words  were  written  in  1818,  while  we  were 
in  Lombardy,  when  he  little  thought  how  soon  a 
work  of  his  own  would  prove  a  proud  comment  on 
the  passage  he  quoted.  When  in  Rome,  in  1819, 
a  friend  put  into  our  hands  the  old  manuscript 
account  of  the  story  of  the  Cenci.  We  visited  the 
Colonna  and  Doria  palaces,  where  the  portraits  of 
Beatrice  were  to  be  found ;  and  her  beauty  cast 
the  reflection  of  its  own  grace  over  her  appalling 
story.  Shelley's  imagination  became  strongly  ex- 
cited, and  he  urged  the  subject  to  me  as  one  fitted 
for  a  tragedy.  More  than  ever  I  felt  my  incom- 
petence ;  but  I  entreated  him  to  write  it  instead ; 
and  he  began  and  proceeded  swiftly,  urged  on  by 
intense  sympathy  with  the  sufferings  of  the  human 
beings  whose  passions,  so  long  cold  in  the  tomb, 
he  revived,  and  gifted  with  poetic  language.  This 
tragedy  is  the  only  one  of  his  works  that  he  com- 


EDITOR'S  NOTE  ON  THE  CENCI. 


181 


municated  to  me  during  its  progress.  We  talked 
over  the  arrangcuient  of  the  scenes  together.  I 
speedily  saw  the  great  mistake  we  had  made,  and 
triumphed  in  the  discovery  of  the  new  talent 
hrought  to  light  from  that  mine  of  wealth,  never, 
alas !  through  his  untimely  death,  worked  to  its 
depths — his  richly-gitkd  mind. 

We  suffered  a  severe  afHiction  in  Rome  by  the 
loss  of  our  eldest  child,  who  was  of  such  beauty 
and  promise  as  to  cause  him  ^»^ervcdly  to  be  the 
idol  of  our  hearts.  We  left  the  capital  of  the 
world,  anxious  for  a  time  to  escape  a  spot  asso- 
ciated too  intimately  with  his  presence  and  loss.* 
Some  friends  of  ours  were  residing  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  Leghorn,  and  we  took  a  small  house, 
Villa  Valsovano,  about  half-way  between  the  town 
and  Monte  Nero,  where  we  remained  during  the 
summer.  Our  villa  was  situated  in  the  midst  of  a 
podere ;  the  peasants  sang  as  they  worked  beneath 
our  windows,  during  the  heats  of  a  very  hot  sea- 
son, and  in  the  evening  the  water-wheel  cracked  as 
the  process  of  irrigation  went  on,  and  the  fireflies 
flashed  froin  among  the  myrtle  hedges; — nature 
was  bright,  sunsliiny,  and  cheerful,  or  diversified 
by  storms  of  a  majestic  terror,  such  as  we  had 
never  before  witnessed. 

At  the  top  of  the  house,  there  was  a  sort  of 
terrace.  There  is  often  such  in  Italy,  generally 
roofed.  This  one  was  very  small,  yet  not  only 
roofed  but  glazed ;  this  Shelley  made  his  study ; 
it  looked  out  on  a  wide  prospect  of  fertile  country, 
and  commanded  a  view  of  the  near  sea.  The 
stonns  that  sometimes  varied  our  day  showed 
themselves  most  picturesquely  as  they  were  driven 
across  the  ocean  ;  sometimes  the  dark  lurid  clouds 
dipped  towards  the  waves,  and  became  water- 
spouts, that  churned  up  the  waters  beneath,  as 
they  were  chased  onward,  and  scattered  by  the 
tempest.  At  other  times  the  dazzlmg  sunlight 
and  heat  made  it  almost  intolerable  to  every 
other;  but  Shelley  basked  in  both,  and  his 
health  and  spirits  revived  under  their  influence. 
In  this  airy  cell  he  wrote  the  principal  part  of  The 
Cenci.  He  was  making  a  study  of  Caldcron  at  the 
time,  reading  his  best  tragedies  with  an  accom- 
plished lady  living  near  us,  to  whom  his  letter 
from  Leghorn  was  addressed  during  the  following 
year.     He  admired  Calderon,  both  for  his  poetry 

*  Suctv  feelings  haunted  him  when,  in  the  Cenci,  he 
makes  Beatrice  speak  to  C'ar<liiial  Camillo  of 
that  fair  blue-eyed  child. 
Who  was  the  loadstar  of  your  life. 
And  say — 
All  see,  since  his  most  piteous  death. 
That  day  and  nij.'ht,  and  heaven  and  earth,  and  time, 
And  all  the  things  hoped  for,  or  done  therein, 
Are  ehang'^d  to  you,  through  your  exceedins;  grief. 


and  his  dramatic  genius ;  but  it  shows  his  judg- 
ment and  originality,  that,  though  greatly  struck 
by  his  first  acquaintance  with  the  Spanish  poet, 
none  of  his  peculiarities  crept  into  the  composition 
of  The  Cenci ;  and  there  is  no  trace  of  his  new 
studies,  except  in  that  passage  to  which  he  himself 
alludes,  as  suggested  by  one  in  El  Purgatorio  de 
San  Patricio. 

Shelley  wished  The  Cenci  to  be  acted.  He  was 
not  a  play-goer,  being  of  such  fastidious  taste  that 
he  was  easily  disgusted  by  the  bad  filling  up  of  the 
inferior  parts.  While  preparing  for  our  departure 
from  England,  however,  he  saw  Miss  O'Neil 
several  times ;  she  was  then  in  the  zenith  of  her 
glory,  and  Shelley  was  deeply  moved  by  her  im- 
personation of  several  parts,  and  by  the  graceful 
sweetness,  the  intense  pathos,  and  subhme  vehe- 
mence of  passion  she  displayed.  She  was  often  in 
his  thoughts  as  he  wrote,  and  when  he  had  finished, 
he  became  anxious  tliat  his  tragedy  should  be 
acted,  and  receive  the  advantage  of  having  this 
accompUshed  actress  to  fill  the  part  of  the  heroine. 
With  this  view  he  wrote  the  following  letter  to  a 
friend  in  London: 

"  The  object  of  the  present  letter  is  to  ask  a 
favour  of  you.  I  have  written  a  tragedy  on  a  story 
well  known  in  Italy  and,  in  my  conception,  emi- 
nently dramatic.  I  have  taken  some  pains  to 
make  my  play  fit  for  representation,  and  those 
who  have  already  seen  it  judge  favourably.  It  is 
written  without  any  of  the  peculiar  feelings  and 
opinions  which  characterize  my  other  compositions ; 
I  having  attended  simply  to  the  impartial  develope- 
ment  of  such  characters  as  it  is  probable  the  per- 
sons represented  really  were,  together  with  the 
greatest  degree  of  popular  effect  to  be  produced 
by  such  a  developement.  I  send  you  a  translation 
of  the  Itahan  MS.  on  which  my  play  is  founded ; 
the  chief  circumstance  of  which  I  have  touched 
very  delicately ;  for  my  principal  doubt  as  to 
whether  it  would  succeed,  as  an  acting  play,  hangs 
entirely  on  the  question  as  to  whether  any  such  a 
thing  as  incest  in  this  shape,  however  treated, 
would  be  admitted  on  the  stage.  I  think,  however, 
it  will  form  no  objection,  considering,  first,  that 
the  facts  are  matters  of  history,  and,  secondly,  the 
peculiar  delicacy  with  which  I  have  treated  it.* 

« I  am  exceedingly  interested  in  the  question 
of  whether  this  attempt  of  mine  will  succeed  or  not. 

*  In  speaking' of  his  mode  of  treating  this  main  inci- 
dent, Shelley  said  that  it  might  be  remarked  that,  in  the 
course  of  the  play,  he  had  never  mentioned  expressly 
Cenci's  worst  crime.  Everyone  knew  what  it  must  be, 
but  it  was  never  imaged  in  words — the  nearest  allusion 
to  it  being  that  portion  of  Cenci's  curse,  beginning, 
"That  if  she  have  a  child,"  &,c. 
Q 


182 


EDITOR'S    NOTE    ON    THE    CENCI. 


I  am  strongly  inclined  to  the  afTinnative  at  prespnt ; 
founding  my  hopits  on  this,  that  as  a  composition 
it  is  certainly  not  inferior  to  any  of  tiie  modern 
plays  that  have  been  acted,  with  the  exception  of 
'  Remorse ;'  that  the  interest  of  the  plot  is  incredibly 
greater  and  more  real,  and  that  there  is  nothing 
beyond  what  the  multitude  are  contented  to  be- 
lieve that  they  can  understand,  cither  in  imagery, 
opinion,  or  sentiment.  I  wish  to  preserve  a  com- 
plete incognito,  and  can  trust  to  you  that,  what- 
ever else  you  do,  you  will  at  least  favour  me  on 
this  point  Indeed  this  is  essential,  deeply  essential 
to  its  success.  After  it  had  been  acted  and  suc- 
cessfully, (could  I  hope  for  such  a  thing)  I  would 
own  it  if  I  pleased,  and  use  the  celebrity  it  might 
acquire  to  my  own  purposes. 

"  What  I  want  you  to  do,  is  to  procure  for  me 
its  presentation  at  Covent  Garden.  The  prirtcipal 
character,  Beatrice,  is  precisely  fitted  for  Miss 
O'Neil,  and  it  might  even  seem  to  have  been 
\vrittcn  for  her,  (God  forbid  that  I  should  sec  her 
play  it — it  would  tear  my  nerves  to  pieces,)  and  in 
all  respects  it  is  fitted  only  for  Covent  Garden. 
The  chief  male  character  I  confess  I  should  be 
very  unwilling  that  any  one  but  Kean  should 
play — that  is  impossible,  and  I  must  be  contented 
with  an  inferior  actor." 

The  play  was  accordingly  sent  to  Mr.  Harris, 
He  pronounced  the  subject  to  be  so  objectionable, 
that  he  could  not  even  submit  the  part  to  Miss 
O'Neil  for  perusal,  but  expressed  his  desire  that 
the  author  would  write  a  tragedy  on  some  other 
subject,  which  he  would  gladly  accept.  Shelley 
printed  a  small  edition  at  Leghorn,  to  insure  its 
correctness ;  as  he  was  much  annoyed  by  the  many 
mistakes  that  crept  into  his  text,  when  distance 
prevented  him  from  correcting  the  press. 

Universal  approbation  soon  stamped  The  Cenci 
as  the  best  tragedy  of  modem  times.  Writing 
concerning  it,  Shelley  said :  "  I  have  been  cautious 
to  avoid  the  introducing  faults  of  youthful  com- 


position  ;  diffusencss,  a  profusion  of  inapplicable 
imagery,  vagueness,  generality,  and,  as  Hamlet 
says,  words,  words."  Tiiere  is  nothing  that  is  not 
purely  dramatic  throughout ;  and  the  character  of 
Beatrice,  proceeding  from  vehement  struggle  to 
horror,  to  deadly  resolution,  and  lastly,  to  the 
elevated  dignity  of  calm  sulfering  joined  to  pas- 
sionate tenderness  and  patlios,  is  touched  with 
hues  so  vivid  and  so  beautiful,  that  the  poet  seems 
to  have  read  intimately  the  secrets  of  the  noble 
heart  imaged  in  the  lovely  countenance  of  the  un- 
fortunate girl.  The  Fifth  Act  is  a  ma.^terpiece. 
It  is  the  finest  thing  he  ever  wrote,  and  may  claim 
proud  comparison  not  only  with  any  contemporary, 
but  preceding  poet.  The  varying  feelings  of 
Beatrice  are  expressed  with  passionate,  heart- 
reacliing  eloquence.  Every  character  has  a  voice 
that  echoes  truth  in  its ,  tones.  It  is  curious,  to 
one  acquainted  with  the  written  story,  to  mark 
the  success  with  which  the  poet  has  inwoven  the 
real  incidents  of  the  tragedy  into  his  scenes,  and 
yet,  through  the  power  of  poetry,  has  obliterated 
all  that  would  otherwise  have  shown  too  harsh  or 
too  hideous  in  the  picture.  His  success  was  a 
double  triumph ;  and  often  after  he  was  earnestly 
entreated  to  write  again  in  a  st^'lc  that  commanded 
popular  favour,  while  it  was  not  less  instinct  with 
truth  and  genius.  But  the  bent  of  his  mind  went 
the  other  way ;  and  even  when  employed  on  sub- 
jects whose  interest  depended  on  character  and  in- 
cident, he  w'ould  start  of!"  in  anotlier  direction,  and 
leave  the  delineations  of  human  passion,  which  he 
could  depict  in  so  able  a  manner,  for  fantastic 
creations  of  his  fancy,  or  the  expression  of  those 
opinions  and  sentiments  with  regard  to  human 
nature  and  its  destiny ;  a  desire  to  difluse  which, 
was  the  master  passion  of  his  soul. 

Finding  among  my  papers  the  account  of  the 
case  of  the  Cenci  family,  translated  from  the  old 
Roman  MS.,  written  at  the  period  when  the  dis- 
astrous events  it  conimemorates  occurred,  I  append 
it  here,  as  the  perusal  must  interest  every  reader. 


RELATION    OF    THE    DEATH    OF    THE    CENCI    FAMILY. 


183 


RELATION 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  FAIVHEY  OF  THE  CENCI. 


The  most  wicked  life  which  tlic  Roman  noble- 
man, Francesco  Ccnci,  led  while  he  lived  in  this 
world,  not  oidy  occasioned  his  own  ruin  and 
death,  hut  also  that  of  many  others,  and  hrouirht 
down  the  entire  destruction  of  his  house.  This 
nohleman  was  the  son  of  Monsignore  Cenci,  who 
bavins;  been  treasurer  during  the  pontificate  of 
Pius  v.,  left  immense  wealtli  to  Francesco,  his 
only  son.  From  this  inheritance  alone  he  enjoyed 
an  income  of  100,000  crowns,  and  he  increased 
his  fortune  by  marrying  an  exceedingly  rich  lady, 
who  died  after  she  had  given  birth  to  seven  unfor- 
tunate children.  He  then  contracted  a  second 
marriage  with  Lucretia  Petroni,  a  lady  of  a  noble 
Roman  family  ;  but  he  had  no  children  by  her. 
Sodomy  was  the  least,  and  atheism  the  greatest, 
of  the  vices  of  Francesco ;  as  is  proved  by  the  tenor 
of  his  hfe ;  for  he  was  three  times  accused  of 
sodomy,  and  paid  the  sum  of  100,000  crowns  to 
government,  in  commutation  of  the  punishment 
rightfully  awarded  to  this  crime :  and  concerning 
his  religion,  it  is  sufficient  to  state,  that  he  never 
frequented  any  church  ;  and  although  he  caused  a 
small  cliupol,  dedicated  to  the  apostle  St.  Thomas, 
to  be  built  in  the  court  of  his  palace,  his  intention 
in  so  doing  was  to  bury  tliere  all  his  children, 
whom  he  cruelly  hated.  He  had  driven  the  eldest 
of  these,  Giacomo,  Cristofcro,  and  Rocco,  from  the 
paternal  mansion,  while  they  were  yet  too  young 
to  have  given  him  any  real  cause  of  displeasure. 
He  sent  them  to  the  university  of  Salamanca,  but, 
refusing  to  remit  to  them  there  the  money  neces- 
sary for  their  maintenance,  they  desperately  re- 
turned home.  They  found  that  this  change  only 
increased  their  misery,  for  the  hatred  and  contempt 
of  their  father  towards  them  was  so  aggravated,  that 
he  refused  to  dress  or  maintain  them,  so  that  they 
were  obliged  to  have  recourse  to  the  Pope,  who 
caused  Cenci  to  make  them  a  fit  allowance,  with 
with  which  they  withdrew  from  his  house. 

The  third  imprisonment  of  Francesco,  for  his 
accustomed  crime  of  sodomy,  occurred  at  this  time, 
and  his  sons  took  occasion  to  supplicate  the  Pope 
to  punish  their  father,  and  to  remove  so  great  a 
monster  from  his  family.  The  Pope,  though  be- 
fore inclined  to  condemn  Francesco  to  the  deserved 
punishment  of  deatii,  would  not  do  it  at  the  re- 
quest of  his  sons,  but  permitted  him  again  to  com- 
pound with  the  law,  by  paying  the  accustomed 
penalty  of  100,000  crowns.  The  hatred  of  Fran- 
cesco towards  his  sons  was  augmented  liy  this 
proceeding  on  their  parts;  he  cursed  them;  and 
often  also  struck  and  ill-treated  his  daughters.  The 
24 


eldest  of  these,  being  unable  any  longer  to  support 
the  cruelty  of  her  father,  exposed  her  miserable 
condition  to  the  Poj)c,  and  su])plicatcd  him  cither 
to  marry  her,  according  to  his  choice,  or  to  shut 
her  up  in  a  monastery,  that  by  any  means  she 
might  be  liberated  from  the  cruel  oppression  of  her 
parent.  Her  prayer  was  heard,  and  the  Pope,  in 
pity  to  her  unhappiness,  bestowed  her  in  marriage 
to  Signore  Carlo  Gabrielli,  one  of  the  first  gentle- 
men of  the  city  of  Gabbio,  and  obliged  Francesco 
to  give  her  a  fitting  dowry  of  some  thousand 
crowns. 

Francesco  fearing  that  his  youngest  daughter 
would,  when  she  grew  up,  follow  the  example  of 
her  sister,  bethought  himself  how  to  hinder  this 
design,  and  for  that  purpose  shut  her  up  alone  in 
an  apartment  of  the  palace,  where  he  himself 
brought  her  food,  so  that  no  one  might  approach 
her  ;  and  imprisoned  her  in  this  manner  for  several 
months,  oflen  inflicting  on  her  blows  with  a  stick. 

In  the  mean  'time  ensued  the  death  of  two  of  his 
sons,  Rocco  and  Cristofero — one  being  assassi- 
nated by  a  surgeon,  and  the  other  by  Paolo  Corso, 
while  he  was  attending  mass.  The  inhuman 
father  showed  every  sign  of  joy  on  hearing  this 
news,  saying  that  nothing  would  exceed  his  plea- 
sure if  all  his  children  died,  and  that  when  the 
grave  should  receive  the  last  he  would,  as  a  de- 
monstration of  joy,  make  a  bonfire  of  all  that  he 
possessed.  And  on  the  f)resent  occasion,  as  a  fur- 
ther sign  of  his  hatred,  he  refused  to  pay  the 
smallest  sum  towards  the  funeral  expenses  of  his 
murdered  sons. 

Francesco  carried  his  wicked  debauchery  to  such 
an  excess,  that  he  caused  girls,  rof  whom  he  con- 
stantly kept  a  number  in  his  house,)  and  also 
common  courtezans,  to  sleep  in  the  bed  of  his  wife, 
and  often  endeavoured,  by  force  and  threats,  to 
debauch  his  daughter  Beatrice,  who  was  nov? 
grown  up,  and  exceedingly  beautiful — * 


Beatrice,  finding  it  impossible  to  continue  to 
live  in  so  miserable  a  manner,  followed  the  exam- 
ple of  her  sister ;  she  sent  a  well-written  supplica- 
tion to  the  Pope,  imploring  him  to  exercise  his  au- 
thority in  withdrawing  her  fi'om  the  violence  and 
cruelty  of  her  father. — But  this  petition,  which 
might,  if  listened  to,  have  saved  this  unfortunate 
girl  from  an  early  death,  produced  not  the  least 

*  The  details  here  are  horrible,  and  unfit  for  publication. 
q2   


184       RELATION    OF    THE    DEATH    OF    THE    CENCI    FAMILY. 


efTect.  It  was  aftprwanls  found  amonp  ihc  collec- 
tion of  nu'inorials,  and  it  is  prctt-ndi'd  tluit  it  never 
came  before  the  Pojm;. 

Francesco,  having  discovered  this  attenijit  on 
the  part  of  his  daui^hter,  became  more  enraged, 
and  redoubled  his  tyranny  ;  confining  with  rigour 
not  only  Beatrice,  but  also  liis  wife.  At  length, 
these  unlui|>|)y  women,  finding  themselves  without 
hojR-  of  relief,  driven  by  desperation,  resolved  to 
plan  his  death. 

The  Palace  Uenci  wils  sometimes  visited  by  a 
Monsignore  (Juerra — a  young  man  of  handsome 
person  and  attractive  manners,  and  of  that  facile 
character  which  might  easily  be  induced  to  l)ecoine 
a  partner  in  any  action,  gooil  or  evil,  as  it  might 
happen.  His  countenance  was  pleasing,  and  his 
person  tall  and  well  proportioned ;  he  was  some- 
what in  love  with  Beatrice,  and  well  ac(piainted 
with  tlie  turpitude  of  Francesco's  character,  and 
was  hated  by  him  on  account  of  the  familiar  inter- 
course which  subsisted  between  him  and  the 
children  of  this  unnatural  father:  for  this  reason 
he  timed  ]>is  visits  with  caution,  and  never  came 
to  the  house  but  when  he  knew  that  Francesco 
was  absent.  He  was  moved  to  a  lively  comjjas- 
sion  of  the  state  of  Lucrctia  and  Beatrice,  who 
often  related  their  increasing  misery  to  him,  and 
his  pity  was  for  ever  fed  and  augmented  by  some 
new  tale  of  tyranny'  and  cruelty.  In  one  of  these 
conversations  Beatrice  let  fall  some  words  which 
plainly  indicated  that  she  and  her  mother-in-law 
contemplated  the  murder  of  their  tyrant,  and  Mon- 
signore Guerra  not  ojily  showed  approbation  of 
their  design,  but  also  promised  to  co-o[)cnile  with 
them  in  their  imdertaking.  Thus  stimulated,  Bea- 
trice communicated  the  design  to  her  eldest  bro- 
ther, Giacomo,  without  whose  concurrence  it  was 
impossible  that  they  should  succeed.  This  latter 
was  easily  drawn  into  consent,  since  he  was  utterly 
disgusted  with  his  father,  who  ill-treated  him,  and 
refused  to  allow  him  a  suflicicnt  support  for  his 
wife  and  children. 

The  apartments  of  Monsignore  Guerra  was  the 
place  in  which  the  circumstances  of  the  crime 
about  to  be  committed  were  concerted  and  deter- 
mined on.  Here  Giacomo,  with  the  understanding 
of  his  sister  and  mother-in-law,  held  various  con- 
sultations, and  finally  resolved  to  connnit  the  mur- 
der of  Francesco  to  two  of  his  vassals,  who  had 
Ixjcomc  his  inveterate  enemies;  one  called  Mar/.io, 
anil  the  otiier  Olymjao :  the  latter,  by  means  of 
Francesco,  had  been  deprived  of  his  post  as  cas- 
tellan of  the  rock  of  Petrel  la. 

It  was  already  well  known  that  Francesco,  with 
the  permission  of  Signor  Marzio  di  Colonna,  baron 
of  that  feud,  had  resolved  to  retire  to  Petrella,  and 
to  pass  the  sunnner  there  with  his  family.  Some 
banditti  of  the  kingdom  of  Na|)les  were  hired,  and 
were  instruct<'d  to  lie  in  wait  in  the  woods  about 
Petrella,  and,  upon  advice  being  given  to  them  of 
the  ap[)r()ach  of  Francesco,  to  seize  upon  him. 
This  scheme  was  so  arrangeil  that,  although  the 
robbers  were  only  to  seize  and  tike  olT  Francesco, 
yet  that  his  wife  and  children  should  not  be  sus. 
pected  of  being  accomjiliccs  in  the  act.     But  tho 


affair  did  not  succeed ;  for,  as  the  banditti  were 
not  informed  of  his  aj)i)roach  in  time  enough, 
Francesco  arrived  safe  \and  sound  at  Petrella. 
They  were  obliged  therefore  to  form  some  new 
scheme  to  obtain  the  end  which  every  day  made 
them  more  impatient  to  ed'ect :  for  Francesco  still 
persisted  in  his  wicked  conduct.  He  being  an  old 
man,  above  seventy  years  of  age,  never  quitted 
the  castle  ;  therefore  no  use  could  be  made  of  the 
banditti,  who  were  still  s<"creteil  in  the  environs. 
It  was  determined,  therefore,  to  accomplish  the 
murder  in  Francesco's  own  house. 

Marzio  anil  ()lyi7ipio  were  called  to  the  castle ; 
and  Beatrice,  accompanied  by  her  mother-in-law, 
conversed  with  them  from  a  window  durmg  the 
nighttime,  when  her  father  slept.  She  ordered 
them  to  repair  to  Monsignore  Guerra  with  a  note, 
in  which  the)-  were  desired  to  murder  Francesco, 
in  consideration  of  a  reward  of  a  thousand  crowns : 
a  third  to  be  given  them  before  the  act,  by  Mon- 
signore Guerra,  and  the  other  two  thirds,  by  the 
ladies  themselves,  after  the  deed  should  be  accom- 
plished. Having  consented  to  this  agreement,  they 
were  secretly  admitted  into  the  castle  the  8th  of 
September,  1.5'.)8  ;  but  because  this  day  was  the 
anniversary  of  the  birth  of  the  Blessed  Virgin,  the 
Signora  Lucrctia,  held  back  by  her  veneration  for 
so  holy  a  time,  desired,  with  the  consent  of  her 
daughter-in-law,  that  the  execution  of  the  murder 
should  be  put  off  until  the  following  day.  They 
dexterously  mixed  ophim  with  the  drink  of  Fran- 
cesco, who,  upon  going  to  bed,  was  soon  oj^jiressed 
by  a  deep  sleep.  About  midnight  his  daughter 
herself  led  the  two  assassins  into  the  apartment  of 
her  father,  and  left  them  there  that  they  might 
execute  the  deed  they  had  undertaken,  and  retired 
to  a  chamber  close  by,  where  Lucrctia  remained 
also,  expecting  the  return  of  the  murderers,  and 
the  relation  of  their  success.  Soon  after  the  as- 
sassins entered,  and  told  the  ladies  that  pity  had 
held  them  baA,  and  that  they  could  not  overcome 
their  repugnance  to  kill  in  cold  blood  a  poor  sleep- 
ing old  man.  These  words  filled  Beatrice  with 
anger,  and  after  having  bitterly  reviled  them  as 
cowards  and  traitors,  she  exclaimed,  '•  Since  you 
have  not  courage  enough  to  murder  a  sleeping 
man,  I  will  kill  my  father  myself;  but  your  lives 
*hall  not  be  long  secure."  The  assassins,  hearing 
this  short  but  terrible  tlireal,  feared  that  if  they  did 
not  commit  the  deed,  the  tempest  would  burst 
over  their  own  heads,  took  courage,  and  re-entered 
the  chamber  where  Francesco  slept,  and  with  a 
hammer  drove  a  nail  into  his  head,  making  it  pass 
by  his  eye,  and  another  they  drove  into  his  neck. 
After  a  few  struggles  the  nnhappy  Francesco 
lireathed  his  last.  The  murderers  departed,  after 
havmg  received  the  remainder  of  the  jiromised  re- 
ward ;  besides  which,  Beatrice  gave  Marzio  a 
mantle  tiimmed  with  gold.  After  this  the  two 
ladies,  after  drawing  out  the  two  nails,  enveIo])ed 
the  body  in  a  fine  sheet,  and  carried  it  to  an  ojjcn 
gallery  that  overhung  a  garden,  and  had  under- 
neath an  elder  free :  from  thence  they  threw  it 
down,  so  that  it  might  be  believed  that  Francesco, 
atUMiding  a  call  of  nature,  was  traversing  this  gal- 


RELATION  OF  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  CENCI  FAMILY. 


185 


Icry,  when,  being  only  supported  by  feeble  beams, 
it  had  given  way,  and  tlius  had  h)st  his  life. 

And  so  indeed  was  it  believed  the  next  day, 
when  the  feigned  lamentations  of  Lucretia  and 
Beatrice,  who  appeared  inconsolable,  spread  the 
news  of  Francesco's  death.  He  received  an  ho- 
nourable burial ;  and  his  family,  after  a  short  stay 
at  the  castle,  returned  to  Rome  to  enjoy  the  fruits 
of  their  crime.  They  jjassed  some  time  there  in 
tran([uillity  ;  but  Divine  Justice,  which  would  not 
allow  so  atrocious  a  wicke4ness  to  remain  hid  and 
unpunished,  so  ordered  it,  that  the  Court  of  Na- 
ples, to  which  the  account  of  the  death  of  Ccnci 
was  forwarded,  began  to  entertain  doubts  concern- 
ing the  mode  by  which  he  came  by  it,  and  sent  a 
commissary  to  examine  the  body  and  to  take  infor- 
mations. Among  other  things,  this  man  disco- 
vered a  circumstance  to  the  prejudice  of  the  family 
of  the  deceased  :  it  appeared  that  the  day  after  the 
event  of  her  father's  death,  Beatrice  had  given  to 
wash  a  sheet  covered  with  blood,  saying : 


These  informations  were  instantly  forwarded  to 
the  Court  of  Rome ;  but,  nevertheless,  several 
months  pass'ed  without  any  step  being  taken  in 
disfavour  of  the  Cenci  family ;  and,  in  the  mean 
time,  the  youngest  son  of  Francesco  died,  and  two 
only  remained  of  the  five  that  he  had  had ;  namely, 
Giacomd  and  Bernardo.  Monsignore  Guerra, 
having  heard  of  the  notification  made  by  the 
Court  of  Naples  to  that  of  Rome,  fearing  that 
Marzio  and  Olympio  might  fall  into  the  hands  of 
justice,  and  be  induced  to  confess  their  crime  sud- 
denly hired  men  to  murder  them,  but  succeeded 
only  in  assassinating  Olympio  at  the  city  of  Terni. 
Marzio,  who  had  escaped  this  misfortune,  soon  in- 
curred that  of  being  imprisoned  at  Naples,  where 
he  confessed  the  whole ;  and  instantly,  while  the 
arrival  of  Marzio  at  Rome  from  Naples  was  ex- 
pected, Giacomo  and  Bernardo  were  arrested,  and 
imprisoned  in  the  Corte  Savella,  and  Lucretia  and 
Beatrice  were  confined  in  their  own  house  under 
a  good  guard ;  but  afterwards  they  were  also  con- 
ducted to  the  prison  where  were  the  brothers. 
They  were  here  examined,  and  all  constantly  de- 
nied the  crime,  and  particularly  Beatrice,  who  also 
denied  having  given  to  Marzio  the  mantle  trimmed 
with  gold,  of  which  mention  was  before  made ; 
and  Marzio,  overcome  and  moved  by  the  presence 
of  mind  and  courage  of  Beatrice,  retracted  all  that 
he  had  deposed  at  Naples,  and,  rather  than  again 
confess,  obstinately  died  under  his  torments. 

There  not  being  sulficicnt  proof  to  justify  put- 
ting the  Cenci  family  to  the  torture,  they  were  all 
transferred  to  Castello,  where  they  remained  seve- 
ral months  in  tranquillity.  But,  for  their  misfor- 
tune, one  of  the  murderers  of  Olymjno  at  Terni 
fell  into  the  hands  of  justice;  he  confessed  that 
he  had  been  hired  to  this  deed  by  Monsignore 
Guerra,  who  had  also  commissioned  him  to  assas- 
sinate Marzio.  Fortunately  for  this  prelate,  he 
received  prompt  information  of  the  testimony  given 
against  him,  and  was  able  to  hide  himself  for  a 
24 


time,  and  to  plan  his  escape,  which  was  very  diffi- 
cult; for  his  stature,  the  fairness  and  beauty  of  his 
countenance,  and  his  light  hair,  made  him  con- 
spicuous for  discoveiy.  He  changed  his  dress  for 
that  of  a  charcoal-man  blackening  his  face,  and 
shaving  his  head ;  and  thus  disguised,  driving  two 
asses  before  him,  with  some  bread  and  onions  in 
his  hands,  he  passed  freely  through  Rome,  under 
the  eyes  of  the  ministers  of  justice,  who  sought 
him  every  where ;  and,  without  being  recognised 
by  any  one,  passed  out  of  one  of  the  gates  of  the 
city,  where,  after  a  short  time,  he  was  met  by  the 
sbirri,  who  were  searching  the  country,  and  passed 
unknown  by  them,  not  without  suflering  great  fear 
at  his  risk  of  b(>ing  discovered  and  arrested :  by 
means  of  this  ingenious  disguise  he  effected  his 
escape  to  a  safe  country. 

The  flight  of  Monsignore  Guerra,  joined  to  the 
confession  of  the  murderer  of  Olympio,  aggravated 
the  other  proofs  so  much,  that  the  Cenci  were  re- 
transferred  from  Castello  to  Corte  Savella,  and 
were  condemned  to  be  put  to  the  torture.  The 
two  sons  sank  vilely  under  their  torments,  and  be- 
came convicted;  Lucretia,  being  of  advanced  age, 
having  completed  her  fiftieth  year,  and  being  of  a 
fat  make,  was  not  able  to  resist  the  torture  of  the 
cord — [The , original  is  wanting.'] — But  the  Sig- 
nora  Beatrice,  being  young,  lively,  and  strong, 
neither  with  good  nor  ill  treatment,  with  menaces, 
nor  fear  of  torture,  would  allow  a  single  word  to 
pass  her  lips  which  might  inculpate  her;  and  even, 
by  her  lively  eloquence,  confused  the  judges  who 
examined  her.  The  Pope,  being  informed  of  all 
that  passed  by  Signor  Ulysse  Moracci,  the  judge 
employed  in  this  affair,  became  suspicious  that  the 
beauty  of  Beatrice  had  softened  the  mind  of  this 
judge,  and  committed  the  cause  to  another,  who 
found  out  another  mode  of  torment,  called  the  tor- 
ture of  the  hair;  and  when  she  was  already  tied 
under  this  torture,  he  brought  before  her  her  mo- 
ther-in-law and  brothers.  They  began  altogether 
to  exhort  her  to  confess ;  saying,  that  since  the 
crime  had  been  committed,  they  must  suffer  the 
punishment.  Beatrice,  after  some  resistance,  said, 
"  So  you  all  wish  to  die,  and  to  disgrace  and  ruin 

our  house  % This  is  not  right ;  but  since  it  so 

pleases  you,  so  let  it  be :" — and  turning  to  the 
jailers,  she  told  them  to  unbind  her,  and  that  all 
the  examinations  might  be  brought  to  her,  saying, 
"  That  which  I  ought  to  confess,  that  will  I  con- 
fess ;  that  to  which  I  ought  to  assent,  to  that  will 
I  assent;  and  that  which  I  ought  to  deny,  that 
will  I  deny :" — and  in  this  manner  she  was  con- 
victed without  having  confessed.  They  were  then 
all  unbound  ;  and,  since  it  was  now  live  months 
since  all  had  met,  they  wished  to  cat  together  that 
day  :  but,  three  days  afterwards,  they  were  again 
divided — the  ladies  being  left  in  the  Corte  Savella, 
and  the  brothers  being  transferred  to  the  dungeons 
of  the  Tordinona. 

The  Pope,  after  having  seen  all  the  examinations, 
and  the  entire  confessions,  ordered  that  the  delin- 
quents should  be  drawn  through  the  streets  at  the 
tails  of  horses,  and  afterwards  decapitated.  Many 
cardinals  and  princes  interested  themselves,  and 
q2 


186 


RELATION    OF    THE    DEATH    OF    THE    CENCI    FAMILY. 


entreated  that  at  least  they  niij^ht  he  allowed  to 
draw  up  their  defence.  'J'lie  J'ope  at  first  refused 
to  conijily,  replying  with  wveritv.iind  asking  these 
intercessors  wl.'at  defence  hud  heen  allowed  to 
Francesco,  when  he  had  been  so  liarhiirousiy  mur- 
dered in  liis  sleep;  hut  afterwards  he  yielded  to 
allow  them  twenty-five  days'  time.  The  most 
celebrated  Roman  advocates  undertook  to  defend 
the  criminals;  and,  at  the  end  of  tlie  appointed 
time,  brought  their  writings  to  the  Pojjc.  The  first 
that  spoke  was  the  advocate  IS'icolas  di  Angelis; 
but  the  Pope  interrupted  him  angrily  in  the  middle 
of  his  discourse,  saying,  that  he  greatly  wondered 
that  there  existed  in  Kome  children  unnatural 
enough  to  kill  their  father ;  and  that  there  should 
be  found  advocates  depraved  enough  to  defend  so 
horrible  a  crime.  These  words  silenced  all  except 
the  advocate  Farinacci ;  who  said,  "  Holy  Father, 
we  have  not  fallen  at  your  feet  to  defend  the  atro- 
city of  the  crime,  but  to  save  the  lite  of  tlie  inno- 
cent, when  your  holiness  will  deign  to  hear  us." 
The  Pope  listened  patiVntly  to  him  for  four  hours, 
and  then,  taking  the  writings,  dismissed  them.  The 
advocate  Altieri,  who  was  the  last  to  depart,  turned 
back,  and,  throwhig  himself  at  the  feet  of  the  Pope, 
saiil,  that  his  office  as  advocate  to  the  poor  would 
not  allow  him  to  refuse  to  appear  in  this  atTair;  and 
the  Pope  replied  that  he  was  not  surprised  at  the 
part  that  he,  but  at  that  which  the  others  had 
taken.  Instead  of  retiring  to  rest,  he  spent  the 
whole  night  in  studying  the  cause  with  the  Car- 
dinal di  San  Marcello — noting  with  great  care  the 
most  exculpating  passages  of  the  writing  of  the 
advocate  Farinacci ;  with  which  he  became  so 
satisfied,  that  he  gave  hope  of  granting  a  pardon 
to  the  criminals :  for  the  crimes  of  the  father  and 
children  were  contrasted  and  balanced  in  this  writ- 
ing ;  and  to  save  the  sons,  the  greater  guilt  was 
attributed  to  Beatrice ;  and  tiius,  by  saving  the 
mothur-in-law,  the  daughter  might  the  more  easily 
escape,  who  was  dragged,  as  it  were,  to  the  com- 
mitting so  enormous  a  crime  by  the  cruelty  of  her 
father.  The  Pope,  therefore,  that  the  criminals 
might  enjoy  the  benefit  of  time,  ordered  them  again 
to  be  conlined  in  secret.  But  since,  by  the  high 
dispensation  of  Providence,  it  was  resolved  that 
they  shoulil  incur  the  just  penalty  of  parricide,  it 
so  ha|)pcned,  that  at  this  time  i'aola  Santii  Croce 
killed  his  mother  in  the  town  of  8ui)iaco,  because 
she  refused  to  give  up  her  inheritance  to  him.  And 
the  Pope,  u[)on  the  occurrence  of  this  second  crime 
of  this  nature,  resolved  to  punish  those  guilty  of 
the  first ;  and  the  more  so,  because  the  matricide 
Santa  Croce  had  cscaj)ed  from  the  vengeance  of  the 
law  by  flight.  The  Pope  returned  to  Monte  Ca- 
vallo  the  Cth  of  May,  that  he  might  consecrate  the 
next  morning,  in  the  neighbouring  church  of  S. 
Maria  degli  Angeli,  the  Cardinal  Diveristiana,  ap 
pointed  l)y  him  to  be  bishop  of  Ohimbre,  on  the 
.3d  of  May  of  the  same  year,  l.')!)9:  on  the  10th 
of  .May  he  called  into  his  presence  Monsignorc 
Ferrante  Tavcrna,  governor  of  liome,  and  said  to 
him,  "I  give  up  into  your  hands  the  Cenci  cause, 
that  you  may  as  soon  as  you  can  execute  the  jus- 
tice allotted  to  them."     As  soon  as  the  governor 


amvcd  at  his  palace,  he  communicated  the  sentence 
to,  and  held  a  council  with,  the  criminal  judge, 
concerning  the  manner  of  death  to  be  inflicted  on 
the  criminals.  Many  nobles  instantly  hastened  to 
the  j)alaces  of  the  Quirinal  and  the  \'atican,  to 
implore  the  grace  of  at  least  a  private  death  for  the 
ladies,  and  the  i)ardon  of  the  innocent  Bernardo; 
and,  fortunately,  they  were  in  time  to  save  the  life 
of  this  youth,  because  many  hours  were  necessarily 
employed  in  prejjaring  t!ie  scall'old  over  the  bridge 
of  S.  Angelo,  and  iheii  in  xvaiting  for  the  Confra- 
ternity of  .Mercy,  who  were  to  accompany  the  con- 
demned to  the  place  of  sulTering. 

The  sentence  was  executed  the  morning  of  Sa- 
turday, the  1 1th  of  May.  The  messengers  charged 
with  the  coihmunication  of  the  sentence,  and  the 
Brothers  of  the  Conforteria,  were  sent  to  the  several 
prisons  at  five  the  preceding  night;  and  at  six  the 
sentence  of  death  was  coimnunicated  to  the  uri- 
hapjiy  brothers  while  they  were  i)lacidly  sleeping. 
Beatrice  on  hearing  it  broke  into  a  jnercing  lament- 
ation, and  into  passionate  gesture,  exclaiming, 
"How  is  it  possible,  O  my  God!  that  I  must  so 
suddenly  die?"  Lucretia,  as  prepared,  and  already 
resigned  to  her  fate,  listened  without  terror  to  the 
reading  of  this  terrible  sentence  ;  and  with  gentle 
exhortations  induced  her  daughter-in-law  to  enter 
the  chapel  with  her ;  and  the  latter,  whatever  ex- 
cess she  might  have  indulged  in  on  the  first  inti- 
mation of  a  speedy'  death,  so  much  the  more  now 
courageously  supported  herself,  and  gave  every  one 
certain  j)roofs  of  an  humble  resignation.  Having 
requested  that  a  notary  niiirht  be  allowed  to  come 
to  her,  and  her  request  being  granted,  she  made 
her  will,  in  which  she  left  15,0U0  crowns  to  the 
Fraternity  of  the  Sacre  Slinnnate  ;  and  willed  that 
all  her  dowry  should  be  employed  in  i)orlioning  for 
marriage  fifty  maidens  :  and  Lucretia,  imitating  the 
example  of  her  daughter-in-law,  ordered  that  she 
should  be  buried  in  the  church  of  S.  Gregorio  at 
Monte  Celio,  with  32,000  crowns  for  charitable 
uses,  aiid  made  other  legacies ;  after  which  they 
passed  some  time  in  the  Conforteria,  reciting  psalms 
and  litanies  and  other  prayers,  with  so  much  fer- 
vour, that  it  well  apiieared  that  they  were  assisted 
by  the  peculiar  grace  of  God.  At  eight  o'clock 
they  confessed,  heard  mass,  and  received  the  holy 
conununion.  Beatrice,  considering  that  it  was  not 
decorous  to  apjjcar  before  the  judges  and  on  the 
scalFold  with  their  splendid  dresses,  ordered  two 
dresses,  one  for  herself,  and  the  other  for  her  mother- 
in-law,  made  in  the  manner  of  the  nuns — gathered 
up,  and  with  long  sleeves  of  black  cotton  for  Lu- 
cretia, and  of  common  silk  for  herself;  with  a  large 
cord  girdle.  When  these  dresses  came,  Beatrice 
rose,  and,  turning  to  Lucretia- — "  Mother,"  said 
she,  "  the  hour  of  our  departure  is  drawing  near, 
let  us  dress  tiiereforc  in  these  clothes,  and  let  us 
mutually  aid  one  another  in  this  last  otlice."  l>u- 
cretia  readily  complied  with  this  invitation,  and 
they  dressed,  each  helping  the  other,  showing  the 
same  indilFerence-  and  pleasure  as  if  they  were 
dressing  for  a  fe:ust. 

The  Company  of  Mercy  arrived  .loon  after  at 
the  prisons  of  tlie  Tordinona  ;  and  while  they  were 


RELATION    OF    THE    DEATH    OF    THE    CENCI    FAMILY.         187 


waitiii!^  below  in  tlic  street  witli  the  crucifix,  until 
the  condenincd  should  descend,  an  accident  hap- 
pened, which  gave  rise  to  such  a  tumult  among  the 
immense  crowd  there  collected,  that  there  was 
danger  of  much  disorder.  It  thus  liappened  ;  some 
fori'ign  gentlemen,  who  were  posted  at  a  high  win- 
dow, inadvertently  threw  down  a  flower-pot  which 
was  outside  the  window,  which  falling  on  one  of 
the  Iirothors  of  tlie  Order  of  Mercy,  mortally  wound- 
ed him.  This  cau.sed  a  disturbance  in  the  crowd; 
and  those  who  were  too  far  oil  to  know  the  cause, 
took  fhght,  and  falling  one  over  the  other,  several 
were  wounded.  When  the  tumult  was  calmed, 
the  brothers  Giacomo  and  Bernardo  descended  to 
the  door  of  the  prison,  near  which  opportunely 
happened  to  be  some  fiscal  oilicers,  who,  going  up 
to  Bernardo,  told  him  that  through  the  clemency 
of  the  sovereign  pontitf,  his  life  was  spared  to  him, 
with  this  condition,  that  he  should  be  present  at  the 
death  of  his  relations.  A  scarlet  mantle  trimmed 
with  gold,  in  which  he  had  at  first  been  conducted 
to  prison,  was  given  him,  to  envelope  him.  Giaco- 
mo was  already  on  the  car,  when  the  placet  of  the 
Pope  arrived,  freeing  him  from  the  severer  portion 
of  the  punishment  added  to  llie  sentence,  and  or- 
dering that  it  should  be  executed  only  by  the  ham- 
mer and  quartering. 

The  funereal  procession  passed  through  the  Via 
dell'  Orso,  by  the  Apollinara,  thence  through  the 
Piazza  Navona  ;  from  the  church  of  S.  Pantalio  to 
the  Piazza  PoUarola,  through  the  Campo  di  Fiori, 
S.  Carlo  a  Castinari,  to  the  Arcb  de'  Conte  Cenci ; 
proceeding,  it  stopped  under  the  Palace  Cenci,  and 
then  finally  rested  at  the  Corte  Savella,  to  take  the 
two  ladies.  When  these  arrived,  Lucrctia  remained 
hist,  dressed  in  black,  as  has  been  described,  with 
a  veil  of  the  same  colour,  which  covered  her  as  far 
as  her  girdle :  Beatrice  was  beside  her,  also  co- 
vered by  a  veil :  they  wore  velvet  slippers,  with 
silk  roses  and  gold  fastenings;  and,  instead  of  ma- 
nacles, their  wrists  were  bound  by  a  silk  cord, 
which  was  fastened  to  their  girdles  in  sucli  a  man- 
ner as  to  give  them  almost  the  free  use  of  their 
hands.  Each  had  in  her  left  hand  the  holy  sign 
of  benediction,  and  in  the  right  a  handkerchief, 
with  which  Lucretia  wiped  her  tears,  and  Beatrice 
the  perspiration  from  her  forehead.  Being  arrived 
at  the  place  of  punishment,  Bernardo  was  left  on 
the  scaffold,  and  the  others  were  conducted  to  the 
chapel.  During  this  dreadful  separation,  this  un- 
fortunate youth,  reflecting  that  he  was  soon  going 
to  behold  the  decapitation  of  his  nearest  relatives, 
fell  down  in  a  deadly  swoon,  from  which,  however, 
he  was  at  last  recovered,  and  seated  opposite  the 
block.  The  first  that  came  forth  to  die  was  Lucre- 
tia, who,  being  fat,  found  diliiculty  in  placing  her- 
self to  receive  the  blow.  The  executioner  taking 
otT  her  handkerchief,  her  neck  was  discovered, 
which  was  still  handsome,  although  she  was  fifty 
years  of  age.  Blushing  deeply,  she  cast  her  eyes 
down,  and  then,  casting  them  up  to  heaven,  full  of 
tears,  she  exclaimed,  "  Behold,  dearest  Jesus,  this 
guilty  soul  about  to  apjiear  before  thee — to  give  an 
account  of  its  acta,  mingled  with  many  crimes. 
When  it  shall  appear  before  thy  Godhead,  I  pray 


thee  to  look  on  it  with  an  eye  of  mercy,  and  not 
of  justice."  She  then  began  to  recite  the  psalm 
Miserere  mei  Dciis,  and  placing  her  neck  under 
the  axe,  the  head  was  struck  from  her  body  while 
she  was  rejjeating.  the  second  verse  of  this  psalm, 
at  the  words  et  fiecuiidum  rnulfi/udhiem.  When 
the  executioner  raised  the  liead,  the  jiopulace  saw 
with  wonder  that  the  countenance  long  retained 
its  vivacity,  until  it  was  wrapt  up  in  a  black  hand- 
kerchief, and  jilaced  in  a  corner  of  the  scaffold. 
While  the  scallold  was  being  arranged  for  Beatrice, 
and  whilst  the  Brotherhood  returned  to  the  chapel 
for  her,  the  balcony  of  a  shop  filled  with  spectators 
fell,  and  five  of  those  underneath  were  wounded, 
so  that  two  died  a  few  days  after.  Beatrice,  hear- 
ing the  noise,  asked  the  executioner  if  her  mother 
had  died  well,  and  being  replied  that  she  had,  she 
knelt  before  the  crucifix,  and  spoke  thus : — "  Be 
thou  everlastingly  thanked,  0  my  most  gracious 
Saviour,  since,  by  the  good  death  of  my  mother, 
thou  hast  given  me  assurance  of  thy  mercy  towards 
me."  Then,  rising,  she  courageously  and  devoutly 
walked  towards  the  scallold,  repeating  by  the  way 
several  prayers,  with  so  much  fervour  of  spirit,  that 
all  who  heard  her  shed  tears  of  compiission.  As- 
cending the  scaffold,  while  she  arranged  herself, 
she  also  turned  her  eyes  ■  to  heaven,  and  thus 
prayed  : — "  Most  beloved  Jesus,  who,  relinquishing 
thy  divinity,  becamcst  a  man ;  and  didst  through 
love  pui-ge  rpy  sinful  soul  also  of  its  original  sin 
with  thy  precious  blood  ;  deign,  I  beseech  thee,  to 
accept  that  which  I  am  about  to  shed  at  thy  most 
merciful  tribunal,  as  a  penalty  which  may  cancel 
my  many  crimes,  and  spare  me  a  part  of  that  pu- 
nishment justly  due  to  me."  Then  she  j)laced  her 
head  under  the  axe,  which  at  one  blow  was  divided 
from  her  body,  as  she  was  repeating  the  second 
verse  of  the  psalm  De  profundis,  at  the  words 
fiant  mires  tuse;  the  blow  gave  a  violent  motion 
to  her  body,  and  discomjiosed  her  dress.  The  exe- 
cutioner raiaed  the  head  to  the  view  of  the  people 
and  in  placuig  it  in  the  coflin  placed  underneath 
the  cord  by  which  it  was  suspended  slipped  from 
his  hold,  and  the  head  fell  to  the  ground,  shedding 
a  great  deal  of  blood,  which  was  wiped  up  witi. 
water  and  sponges. 

On  the  death  of  his  sister,  Bernardo  agtiin 
fainted :  the  most  eflicacious  rcniedii-s  were  for 
some  time  uselessly  employed  upon  him ;  and  it 
was  believed  by  all  that  his  second  swoon,  having 
found  him  already  overcome  and  withovit  strength, 
had  deprived  him  of  life.  At  length,  af^er  the 
lapse  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  he  canie  to  himself; 
and  by  slow  degrees  recovered  the  use  of  his  senses 
Giacomo  was  then  conducted  to  the  scaflbld,  and 
the  executioner  took  from  him  the  mourning  cloak 
which  enveloped  him.  He  fixed  his  eyes  on  Ber- 
nardo, and  then,  turning,  addressed  the  people  with 
a  loud  voice;  "IVow  that  I  am  about  to  present 
myself  before  the  Tribunal  of  iiifaJlii)le  Truth,  I 
swear  that  if  my  Saviour,  pardoning  me  my  faults, 
shall  {)lace  in  the  road  to  salvation,  I  will  inces- 
seiitly  pray  for  the  preservation  of  his  Holiness, 
who  has  sj)ared  me  the  aggravation  of  punishment 
but   too    n>uch  due  to  my   enormous  crime,  and 


183 


RELATION    OF    THE    DEATH    OF    THE    CENCI    FAMILY. 


has  granted  life  to  mv  brother  Bernardo,  who  is 
most  innocent  of  the  pnilt  of  jinrricide,  as  I  have 
constantly  declared  in  all  my  examinations.  It 
only  afflirts  me  in  these  my  last  moments,  that  he 
should  have  been  ohlii^i'd  to  be  jiresrnt  at  so  fatal 
a  scene :  but  since,  O  my  (lod,  it  has  so  pleased 
thee,y?(//  voluuta.s  tiia."  After  s]>eaking  thus,  he 
knelt  down  :  tlic  executioner  blinded  his  ej'es,  and 
tied  his  legs  to  the  sealTold,  fjave  him  a  blow  on 
the  temple  with  a  leaded  hammer,  cut  olT  his  head, 
and  cut  his  body  into  four  pieces,  which  were  fixed 
on  the  hooks  of  the  scallblding. 

When  the  last  penalty  of  justice  was  over,  Ber- 
nardo was  reconducted  to  the  prison  of  the  Tordi- 
nona,  where  he  was  soon  attacked  by  a  burning 
fever;  he  was  bled  and  received  otlier  remedies,  so 
that  in  the  end  he  recovered  his  health,  though  not 
without  great  suffering.  The  bodies  of  Lucretia 
and  Beatrice  were  left  at  the  end  of  the  bridge 
until  tlie  evening,  illuminated  by  two  torches,  and 
surrounded  by  so  great  a  concourse  of  people,  that 
it  was  impossible  to  cross  the  bridge.  An  hour 
after  dark,  the  body  of  Beatrice  was  placed  in  a 
coflln,  covered  by  a  black  velvet  pall,  richly  adorned 
with  gold :  garlands  of  flowers  were  placed,  one 
at  her  head,  and  another  at  her  feet ;  and  the  body 
was  strewed  witii  flowers.  It  was  accompanied  to 
the  church  of  8.  Peter  in  Montorio  by  the  Brother- 
hood of  the  Order  of  Mercy,  and  followed  by  many 
Franciscan  monks,  with  great  pomp  and  innumer- 
able torches ;  she  was  there  buried  before  the  high 
altar,  after  the  customary  ceremony  had  been  per- 
formed. By  reason  of  the  distance  of  the  church 
from  the  bridge,  it  was  four  hours  after  dark  before 
the  ceremony  was  finished.  Afterwards  the  body 
of  Lucretia,  accon)panie<l  in  the  same  manner,  was 
carried  to  the  church  of  S.  Gregorio  upon  the  Ce- 
lian  Hill ;  where,  after  the  ceremony,  it  was 
honourably  buried. 

Beatrice  was  rather  tall,  of  a  fair  complexion ; 
and  slie  had  a  dimple  on  each  cheek,  which 
especially  when  she  smiled,  added  a  grace  to  her 
lovely  countenance  that  transported  every  one  who 
beheld  her.  Her  hair  appeared  like  threads  of 
gold  ;  and  because  they  were  extremely  long,  she 


used  to  tie  it  up,  and  when  afterwards  she  loosened 
it,  the  splendid  ringlets  dazzled  the  eyes  of  the 
spectator.  Her  eyes  were  of  a  deep  blue,  pleasing 
and  full  of  fire.  To  all  these  beauties  she  added, 
both  in  words  and  actions,  a  spirit  and  a  majestic 
vivacity  that  captivated  ever)'  one.  She  was  twenty 
years  of  age  when  she  died. 

Lucretia  was  as  tall  as  Beatrice,  but  her  full 
make  made  her  appear  less :  she  was  also  fair,  and 
so  fresh  complexioned,  that  at  fifty,  which  was  her 
age  when  she  died,  she  did  not  appear  above  thirty. 
Her  hair  was  black,  and  her  teeth  regular  and 
white  to  an  extraordinary  degree. 

CJiacomo  was  of  a  middle  age;  fair  but  ruddy  ; 
and  \\ilh  black  eyebrows  :  alTablc  in  his  nature,  of 
good  address,  and  well  skilled  in  ever)-  science, 
and  in  all  knightly  exercises.  He  was  not  more 
than  twenty-eight  years  of  age  when  he  died. 

Lastly,  Bernardo  so  closely  resembled  Beatrice 
in  complexion,  features,  and  every  thing  else,  that 
if  they  had  changed  clothes  the  one  might  easily 
have  been  taken  for  the  other.  His  mind  also 
seemed  formed  in  the  same  model  as  that  of  his 
sister ;  and  at  the  time  of  her  death  he  was  six-and- 
twenty  years  old. 

He  remained  in  the  prison  of  Tordinona  until  the 
month  of  September  of  the  same  year,  after  which 
time,  at  the  intercession  of  the  Most  Venerable 
Grand  Brotherhood  of  the  Most  Holy  Crucifix  of 
St.  MarccUus,  he  obtained  the  favour  of  his  liberty 
upon  paying  the  sum  of  25,000  crowns  to  the 
Hospital  of  the  Most  Holy  Trinity  of  Pilgrims. 
Thus  he,  as  the  sole  remnant  of  the  Cenci  family, 
became  heir  to  all  their  possessions.  He  is  now 
married,  and  has  a  son  named  Cristofero. 

The  most  faithful  portrait  of  Beatrice  exists  in 
the  Palace  of  the  Villa  Pamfili,  without  the  gate  of 
San  Pancrazio :  if  any  other  is  to  be  found  in  the 
Palazza  Cenci,  it  is  not  shown  to  any  one  ; — so  as 
not  to  renew  the  memory  of  so  horrible  an  event. 

This  was  the  end  of  this  family  :  and  until  the 
time  when  this  account  is  put  together  it  has  not 
been  possible  to  find  the  Marquis  Paolo  l^anta 
Croce ;  but  there  is  a  rumour  that  he  dwells  in 
Brescia,  a  city  of  the  Venetian  states. 


END  OF  Tlin  CENCI. 


IlELLAS: 

^  Ctirical  Drama. 

MANTIS  EIM"  ES9AS1N  'AFilNilN. 


(Edip.   Colow. 


TO    HIS   EXCELLENCY, 

PRINCE  ALEXANDER  MAVROCORDATO, 

LATE   SECRETARY   FOR  FOREISN   AFFAIRS   TO  THE   HOSFODAR   OF    WALLACHIA, 
THE  DRAiMA  OF  HELLAS 
IS    INSCRIBED, 
AS   AN    IMPERFECT   TOKEN   OF  THE   ADMIRATION,    SYMPATHY,    AND    FRIENDSHIP   OF 


Pisa,  J^ovemher  1,  1821. 


THE  AUTHOR. 


PREFACE. 


The  Poem  of  "  Hellas,"  written  at  the  sugges- 
tion of  the  events  of  the  moment,  is  a  mere  impro- 
\\se,  and  derives  its  interest  (should  it  be  found 
to  possess  any)  solely  from  the  intense  sympathy 
which  the  Author  feels  witli  the  cause  he  would 
celebrate. 

The  subject,  in  its  present  state,  is  insusceptible 
of  being  treated  otherwise  than  lyrically,  and  if  I 
have  called  this  poem  a  drama,  from  the  circum- 
stance of  its  being  composed  in  dialogue,  the  license 
is  not  greater  than  that  which  has  been  assumed 
by  other  poets,  who  have  called  their  productions 
epics,  only  because  they  have  been  divided  into 
twelve  or  twenty-four  books. 

The  Persae  of  .Eschylus  afforded  me  the  first 
model  of  my  conception,  although  the  decision  of 
the  glorious  contest  now  waging  in  Greece  being 
yet  suspended,  forbids  a  catastrophe  parallel  to 
the  return  of  Xerxes  and  the  desolation  of  the 
Persians.  I  have,  therefore,  contented  myself  with 
exhibiting  a  series  of  lyric  pictures,  and  with 
having  wrought  upon  the  curtain  of  futurity,  which 
foils  upon  the  unihiished  scene,  such  figures  of 
indistinct  and  visionary  delineation  as  suggest  the 
final  triumph  of  the  Greek  cause  as  a  portion  of 
the  cause  of  civilization  and  social  improvement. 

The  drama  (if  drama  it  must  be  called)  is,  how- 
ever, so  inartificial  that  I  doubt  whether,  if  recited 
on  the  Thespian  wagon  to  an  Athenian  village 
at  the  Dionysiaca,  it  would  have  obtained  the  prize 
of  the  goat.  I  shall  bear  with  equanimity  any 
punishment  greater  than  the  loss  of  such  a  reward 
which  the  Aristarchi  of  the  hour  may  think  fit  to 
inflict. 


The  only  goat-song  which  I  have  yet  attempted 
has,  I  confess,  in  spite  of  the  unfavourable  nature 
of  the  subject,  received  a  greater  and  a  more 
valuable  portion  of  applause  than  I  expected,  or 
than  it  deserved. 

Common  fame  is  the  only  authority  which  I 
can  allege  for  the  details  which  form  the  basis  of  the 
poem,  and  I  must  trespass  upon  the  forgiveness  of 
my  readers  for  the  display  of  newspaper  erudition 
to  which  I  have  been  reduced.  Undoubtedly, 
until  the  conclusion  of  the  war,  it  will  be  impossible 
to  obtain  an  account  of  it  sufficiently  authentic 
for  historical  material ;  but  poets  have  their  privilege, 
and  it  is  unquestionable  that  actions  of  the  most 
exalted  courage  have  been  performed  by  the  Greeks 
• — that  they  have  gained  more  than  one  naval 
victory,  and  that  their  defeat  in  Wallachia  was 
signalized  by  circumstances  of  heroism  more  glo- 
rious even  than  victory. 

The  apathy  of  the  rulers  of  the  civilized  world, 
to  the  astonishing  circumstance  of  the  descendants 
of  that  nation  to  which  they  owe  their  ci\ilization 
— rising  as  it  were  from  the  ashes  of  their  ruin,  is 
something  perfectly  inexplicable  to  a  mere  specta- 
tor of  the  shows  of  this  mortal  scene.  We  are  all 
Greeks.  Our  laws,  our  literature,  our  religion, 
our  arts, have  their  root  in  Greece.  But  for  Greece 
— 'Rome  the  instructor,  the  conqueror,  or  the  me- 
tropolis of  our  ancestors,  would  have  spread  no  illu- 
mination with  her  arms,  and  we  might  still  have 
been  savages  and  idolaters ;  or,  what  is  worse, 
might  have  arrived  at  such  a  stagnant  and  misera- 
ble state  of  social  institutions  as  China  and  Japan 
possess. 

The  human  form  and  the  human  mind  attained 
to  a  perfection  in  Greece  which  has  impressed  its 
imago  on  those  faultless  productions,  whose  very 

189 


r 


90 


HELLAS. 


fragments  are  the  dcppair  of  modrrn  art,  and  has 
propaRatoii  impolsfs  which  ciinnot  riMsc,  fhrout;li 
a  thousand  chaiim-Is  of  niaiiifi-st  or  iiii|)ercc])tible 
oiK-ratioii,  to  onohk'  and  delight  mankind  until  tlie 
extiiiotioii  of  t!u>  rarr. 

The  moiU>rn  Hn-rk  is  tho  descendant  of  tliose 
Klorious  beings  wiioin  tlio  iin:ij;iiialion  ahnost  re- 
fuses to  fi;j;ure  to  itself  as  bclon^nnj:;  to  our  kind  ; 
and  he  inlicrits  nnich  of  their  seiisii)ility,  and  their 
rapidity  of  ronccjition,  their  enthusiasm,  and  tlieir 
courajje.  If  in  many  iiistances  he  is  degraded  by 
moral  and  political  slavery  to  the  i)ractice  of  the 
basest  vices  it  entjondcrs  and  that  below  the  level 
of  ordinary  degradation;  let  us  reflect  that  the 
corruption  of  the  best  produces  the  worst,  and  that 
habits  which  subsist  only  in  relation  to  a  peculiar 
state  of  social  institutions  may  be  expected  to  cease, 
as  soon  as  that  relation  is  dissolved.  In  fact,  the 
Greeks,  since  the  admirable  novel  of  "  Anastatius" 
could  have  been  a  faithful  picture  of  their  manners, 
have  undergone  most  important  changes ;  the  flower 
of  their  youth,  returning  to  their  co\intry  from  the 
universities  of  Italy,  Germany,  and  France,  have 
communicated  to  their  fellow-citizens  the  latest  re- 
sults of  that  social  perfection  of  wiiich  their  ancestors 
were  the  original  source.  The  university  of  Chios 
contained  Iwfore  the  breaking  out  of  the  revolution, 
eight  hundred  stuilents,  and  among  them  several 
Germans  and  Americans.  The  niunilicence  and 
energy  of  many  of  the  Greek  princes  and  merchants, 
directed  to  the  renovation  of  their  country,  with  a 
spirit  and  a  wisdom  which  has  few  examples,  is 
above  all  praise. 


The  English  permit  their  own  oppressors  to 
act  according  to  their  natural  sympathy  with  the 
Turkish  tynmt,  and  to  brand  upon  their  name 
the  indelible  blot  of  an  alliance  with  the  ene- 
mies of  domestic  happiness,  of  Christianity,  and 
civilization. 

Russia  desires  to  possess,  not  to  liberate  Greece; 
and  is  contented  to  see  the  Turks,  its  natural 
enemies,  and  the  Greeks,  its  intended  slaves,  en- 
feeble each  other,  until  one  or  both  fall  into  its 
net.  The  wise  and  generous  policy  of  Encland 
would  have  consisted  in  establishing  the  independ- 
ence of  Greece,  and  in  maintaining  it  both  against 
Russia  and  the  Turks ; — but  when  was  the  oppressor 
generous  or  just  '. 

The  Spanish  Peninsula  is  already  free.  Prance 
is  tran(inil  in  the  enjoyment  of  a  partial  exemption 
from  the  abuses  which  its  unnatural  and  feeble 
government  are  vainly  attempting  to  revive.  'I'he 
seed  of  blood  and  misery  has  been  sown  in  Italy, 
and  a  more  vigorous  race  is  arising  to  go  forth  to 
the  harvest  The  world  waits  only  the  news  of  a 
revolution  of  Germany,  to  see  the  tyrants  who  have 
pinnacled  themselves  on  its  supinencss,  precipitated 
into  the  ruin  from  which  they  shall  never  arise. 
Well  do  these  destroyers  of  mankind  know  their 
enemy,  when  they  imj)utc  the  insurrection  in 
Greece  to  the  same  spirit  before  which  they  tremt'le 
throughout  the  rest  of  Euroi)e ;  and  that  enemy 
well  knows  the  power  and  cunning  of  its  o|(i>o- 
nents,  and  watches  the  moment  of  their  aj)proach- 
ing  weakness  and  inevitable  division,  to  wrest  the 
bloody  sceptres  from  their  grasp. 


DRAMATIS  PERSON.E. 


AlAHMl'n, 

Hassax, 


DAOon, 
AiiAsi'ERrs,  a  Jew. 


CnoHcs  of  Greek  Captive  Women. 
Messengers,  Slaves,  and  Attendants. 

Scene — Constantinople. 
Time— Sunset. 


Scene,  a  Terrace,  on  the  Seraglio. 

Maiimcd  (fUrpinrr,)  an  fmliiin  sliive  silling  beside  his 
Couch. 

CIMIIU'S     f»F     rniKKK     CAPTIVE     WOMEN. 

We  strew  these  opiate  flowers 

On  thy  restless  pillow. — 
They  were  slri[)t  from  Orient  bowers, 
By  the  Indian  billow. 
Be  thy  sleep 
(Jalm  and  deep. 
Like  theirs  who  fell — not  ours  who  weep  ! 


IXIHAX. 

Away,  unlovely  dreams ! 

Away,  false  shapes  of  sleep ! 
Be  his,  as  Heaven  seems, 
Clear,  and  bright,  and  deep ! 
Soft  as  love,  and  calm  as  death. 
Sweet  as  a  summer  night  without  a  breath. 

riionvs. 
Sleep,  sleep  !  our  song  is  laden 

With  the  soul  of  slumber; 
It  was  sung  by  a  Samian  maiden, 

Whose  lover  was  of  the  number 


HELLAS. 


191 


Who  now  keep 
That  calm  sleep 
Whence  none  may  wake  where  none  shall  weep. 

ixniAX. 
I  touch  thy  temples  pale ! 

I  breathe  my  soul  on  thee ! 
And  could  my  prayers  avail, 
All  my  joy  should  be 
Dead,  and  I  woulil  live  to  weep, 
So  thou  might'st  win  one  hour  of  quiet  sleep. 

CHORUS.  I 

Breathe  low,  low, 
The  spell  of  the  mighty  mistress  now  ! 
When  Conscience  lulls  her  sated  snake. 
And  Tyrants  sleep,  let  Freedom  wake. 
Breathe  low,  low, 
The  words,  which,  like  secret  fire,  shall  flow 
Through  the  veins  of  the  frozen  earth — low,  low ! 

SEMicHoncrs  i. 

Life  may  change,  but  it  may  fly  not ; 
Hope  may  vanish,  but  it  can  die  not ; 
Truth  be  veiled,  but  still  it  burnetii ; 
Love  repulsed, — but  it  returneth ! 

SElMICHOnUS    II. 

Yet  were  life  a  charnel,  where 

Hope  lay  coffined  with  Despair ; 

Yet  wore  truth  a  sacred  lie. 

Love  were  lust — 

SEMicHonrs  i. 

If  Liberty 
Lent  not  life  its  soul  of  hght, 
Hope  its  iris  of  dehght. 
Truth  its  prophet's  robe  to  wear, 
Love  its  power  to  give  and  bear. 

CHOHUS. 

In  the  great  morning  of  the  world, 
The  spirit  of  God  with  might  unfurled 
The  flag  of  Freedom  over  Chaos, 

And  all  its  banded  anarchs  fled. 
Like  vultures  frighted  from  Imaus, 

Before  an  earthquake's  tread. — 
So  from  Time's  tempestuous  dawn 
Freedom's  splendour  burst  and  shone: — 
ThermopylfE  and  Marathon 
Caught,  like  mountains  beacon-lighted, 

The  springing  Fire. — The  winged  glory 
On  Philippi  half-alighted, 

Like  an  eagle  on  a  promontory. 
Its  unwearied  wings  could  fan 
The  quenchless  ashes  of  Milan. 
From  age  to  age,  from  man  to  man 

It  lived ;  and  lit  from  land  to  land 

Florence,  Albion,  Switzerland. 
Then  nicrht  fell;  and,  as  from  night, 
lie-assuming  fiery  flight. 
From  the  West  swift  Freedom  came. 

Against  the  course  of  Heaven  and  doom, 
A  second  sun  arrayed  in  flame, 

To  burn,  to  kindle,  to  illume. 
From  far  Atlantis  its  young  beams 
Chased  the  shadows  and  the  dreams. 
France,  with  all  her  sanguine  streams, 


Hid,  but  quenched  it  not ;  again 

Through  clouds  its  shafts  of  glory  rain 

From  utmost  (ft>rmany  to  Spahi. 
As  an  eagle  fed  with  morning 
Scorns  the  embattled  tempest's  warning. 
When  she  seeks  her  aerie  hanging 

In  the  mouiitain-cedar's  hair. 
And  her  brood  expect  the  clanging' 

Of  her  wings  through  the  wild  air, 
Sick  with  famine  ; — Freedom,  so 
To  what  of  Greece  remaineth  now 
Returns ;  her  hoary  ruins  glow 
Like  orient  mountains  lost  m  day ; 

Beneath  the  safety  of  her  wings 
Her  renovated  nurslings  play, 

And  in  the  naked  lightnings 
Of  truth  they  purge  their  dazzled  eyes. 
Let  Freedom  leave,  where'er  she  flies, 
A  Desert,  or  a  Paradise ; 

Let  the  beautiful  and  the  brave 

Share  her  glory,  or  a  grave. 

SEMICHORUS    I. 

With  the  gifts  of  gladness 
Greece  did  thy  cradle  strew; 

SEMicBonus  XI. 
With  the  tears  of  sadness 

Greece  did  thy  shroud  bedew ; 

SEMICHOHUS     I. 

With  an  orphan's  affection 

She  followed  thy  bier  through  time ! 

SEMICHORUS    11. 

And  at  thy  resurrection 

Re-appeareth,  hke  thou,  subUme  ! 

SEMICHORUS     I. 

If  Heaven  should  resume  thee. 

To  Heaven  shall  her  spirit  ascend  ; 

SEMICHORUS    II. 

If  Hell  should  entomb  thee. 

To  Hell  shall  her  high  hearts  bend. 

SEMICHORUS    I. 

If  AnnUiilation — • 

SEMICHORUS    II. 

Dust  let  her  glories  be  ; 
And  a  name  and  a  nation 

Be  forgotten,  Freedom,  with  thee  ! 

IXDIAJT. 

His  brow  grows  darker — breathe  not — move  not ! 
He  starts — he  shudders  ; — ye  that  love  not. 
With  your  jianting  loud  and  fast 
Have  awakened  him  at  last. 

MAHMun  Qst art ing  from  his  sleep.) 

Man  the  Seraglio-guard  !   make  fast  the  gate. 

What!  from  a  cannonade  of  three  short  hours? 

'Tis  false !  that  breach  towards  the  Bosphorus 

Cannot  be  practicable  yet — Who  stirs  ] 

Stand  to  the  match ;  that  when  the  foe  prevails. 

One  spark  may  mix  in  reconciling  ruin 

The  conqueror  and  the  conquered !  Heave  the  tower 

Into  the  gap — wrench  off  the  roof. 


192 


HELLAS. 


Enter  Hassan. 

Ha!  what! 
The  truth  of  ilay  hghtons  up  my  dream, 
And  I  am  Mahmud  still. 


HASSAN. 

Your  Sublime  Highness 


Is  strangely  moved. 


The  times  do  cast  strange  shadows 
On  those  who  watch  and  who  must  nile  their  course, 
Lest  they,  being  first  in  peril  as  in  glory, 
Be  whelmed  in  the  fierce  ebb : — and  these  are  of 
Thrice  has  a  gloomy  vision  hunted  me         [them. 
As  thus  from  sleep  into  the  troubled  day  ; 
It  shakes  me  as  the  tempest  shakes  the  sea, 
Leaving  no  figure  upon  memory's  glass. 
Would  that — no  matter.      Thou  didst  say  thou 
A  Jew,  whose  spirit  is  a  chronicle  [knewest 

Of  strange  and  secret  and  forgotten  things. 
I  bade  thee  summon  him : — 'tis  said  his  tribe 
Dream,  and  are  wise  interpreters  of  dreams. 

HASSAJf. 

The  Jew  of  whom  I  spake  is  old, — so  old 

He  seems  to  have  outlived  a  world's  decay ; 

The  hoary  mountains  and  the  wrinkled  ocean 

Seem  younger  still  than  he ;  his  hair  and  beard 

Are  whiter  than  the  tempest-sifted  snow ; 

His  cold  pale  limbs  and  pulseless  arteries 

Are  like  the  fibres  of  a  cloud  instinct 

With  hght,  and  to  the  soul  that  quitkens  them 

Are  as  the  atoms  of  the  mountain-drift 

To  the  winter  wind  : — but  from  his  eye  looks  forth 

A  hfe  of  unconsumed  thought,  which  pierces 

The  present  and  the  past,  and  the  to-come. 

Some  say  that  this  is  he  whom  the  great  prophet 

Jesus,  the  son  of  Joseph,  for  his  mockery. 

Mocked  vrith  the  curse  of  immortality. 

Some  feign  that  he  is  Enoch ;  others  dream 

He  was  pre-adamite,  and  has  survived 

Cycles  of  generations  and  of  ruin. 

The  sage,  in  truth,  by  dreadful  abstinence, 

And  conquering  penance  of  the  mutinous  flesh. 

Deep  contemplation,  and  unwearied  study. 

In  years  outstretched  beyond  the  date  of  man. 

May  have  attained  to  sovereignty  and  science 

Over  those  strong  and  secret  things  and  thoughts 

Which  others  fear  and  know  not. 


I  would  talk 


With  this  old  Jew. 


Thy  will  is  even  now    . 
Made  known  tohim,  where  he  dwells  in  a  sea-cavern 
'Mid  the  Demoncsi,  less  accessible 
Than  thou  or  God  !     He  who  would  question  him 
Must  sail  alone  at  sunset,  where  the  stream 
Of  Ocean  sleeps  around  those  foamless  isles 
When  the  young  inoon  is  westering  as  now, 
And  evening  airs  wander  upon  the  wave ; 
And  when  the  pines  of  that  bee-pasturing  isle, 
Green  Ercbinthus,  quench  the  fiery  shadow 
Of  his  gilt  prow  within  the  sappliire  water, 


Then  must  the  lonely  helmsman  cry  aloud, 

Ahasuerus  !  and  the  caverns  round 

Will  answer,  Ahasuerus!  If  his  prayer 

Be  granted,  a  faint  meteor  will  arise, 

Lighting  him  over  Marmora,  and  a  wind 

Will  rush  out  of  the  sighing  pine-forest. 

And  with  the  wind  a  storm  of  harmony 

Unutterably  sweet,  and  pilot  him 

Through  the  soft  twilight  to  the  Bosphorus  : 

Thence,  at  the  hour  and  place  and  circumstance 

Fit  for  the  matter  of  their  conference. 

The  Jew  appears.     Few  dare,  and  few  who  dare. 

Win  the  desired  communion — but  that  shout 

Bodes 

[j9  shout  within. 

MAHMUD. 

Evil,  doubtless ;  like  all  human  sounds. 
Let  me  converse  with  spirits. 


That  shout  again. 

MAHMUD. 

This  Jew  whom  thou  hast  summoned-— 


Will  be  here — 


MAHMUD. 


When  the  omnipotent  hour,  to  which  are  yoked 
He,  I,  and  all  things,  shall  compel — enough. 
Silence  those  mutineers — that  drunken  crew 
That  crowd  about  the  pilot  in  the  storm. 
Ay  !  strike  the  foremost  shorter  by  the  head ! 
They  weary  me,  and  I  have  need  of  rest. 
Kings  are  like  stars — they  rise  and  set ;  they  have 
The  worship  of  the  world,  but  no  repose. 

[Exeunt  severally. 


Worlds  on  worlds  are  rolling  ever 

From  creation  to  decay. 
Like  the  bubbles  on  a  river, 

Sparkling,  bursting,  borne  away. 
But  they  are  still  immortal 
Who,  through  birth's  orient  portal. 
And  death's  dark  chasm  hurrying  to  and  fro, 
Clothe  their  unceasing  flight 
In  the  brief  dust  and  light 
Gathered  round  their  chariots  as  they  go ; 
New  shapes  they  still  may  weave. 
New  Gods,  new  laws  receive. 
Bright  or  dim  are  they,  as  the  robes  they  last, 
On  Death's  bare  ribs  had  cast. 

A  power  from  the  unknown  God ; 
A  Promethean  conqueror  came  ; 
Like  a  triumj)hal  path  he  trod 
The  thorns  of  death  and  shame. 
A  mortal  shape  to  him 
Was  like  the  vapour  dim 
Which  the  orient  })lanet  animates  with  light ; 
Hell,  Sin,  and  Slavery  came, 
Like  bloodhounds  mild  and  tame, 
Nor  preyed  until  their  lord  had  taken  flight. 


HELL  A  S. 


193 


The  moon  of  Mahomet 
Arose,  and  it  Rhall  set : 
Wliile  blazoned  as  on  heaven's  immortal  noon 
The  cross  leads  generations  on. 

Swill  as  the  radiant  shapes  of  sleep 

From  one  whose  dreams  are  paradise, 
Fly,  when  the  fond  wreteii  wakes  to  weep, 
And  day  peers  forth  with  her-  blank  eyes; 
So  fleet,  so  faint,  so  fair, 
The  Powers  of  earth  and  air 
Fled  from  the  folding  star  of  Bethlehem : 
Apollo,  Pan,  and  Love, 
And  even  Olynijiiaii  Jove 
Grew  weak,  for  killing  Truth  had  glared  on  them. 
Our  hills,  and  seas,  and  streams, 
Dispeopled  of  their  dreams. 
Their  waters  turned  to  blood,  their  dew  to  tears, 
Wailed  for  the  golden  years. 

Enter  Mahmud,  Hassan,  Daood,  and  Others. 


More  gold  ?  our  ancestors  bought  gold  with  victor}'. 
And  shall  I  sell  it  for  defeat  ] 


The  Janizars 


Clamour  for  pay. 


Go  !  bid  them  pay  themselves 
With    Christian  blood !      Are  there   no  Grecian 

virgins 
Whose  shrieks  and   spasms  and   tears   they  may 

enjoy  1  , 

No  infidel  children  to  impale  on  spears  1 
No  hoarv'  priests  after  that  Patriarch 
Who  bent  the  curse  against  his  country's  heart. 
Which  clove  liis  own  at  last  ?   Go  !  bid  them  kill : 
Blood  is  the  seed  of  gold. 


It  has  been  sown, 
And, yet  the  harvest  to  the  sickle-men 
Is  as  a  grain  to  each. 


Then  take  this  signet. 
Unlock  the  seventh  chamber,  in  which  lie 
The  treasures  of  victorious  Solyman. 
An  empire's  spoils  stored  for  a  day  of  ruin. 
O  spirit  of  my  sires !  is  it  not  come  1 
The  prey-birds  and  the  wolves  are  gorged  and  sleep; 
But  these,  who  spread  their  feast  on  the  red  earth. 
Hunger  for  gold,  which  fills  not. — See  them  fed ; 
Then  lead  them  to  the  rivers  of  fresh  deatli. 

[Exit  Daood. 
Oh !  miserable  dawn,  after  a  night 
More  glorious  than  the  day  which  it  usurped ! 
O,  faith  in  God  ]   O,  power  on  earth !   O,  word 
Of  the  great  Prophet,  whose  overshadowing  wings 
Darkened  the  thrones  and  idols  of  the  west. 
Now  bright ! — For  thy  sake  cursed  be  the  hour. 
Even  as  a  father  by  an  evil  child. 
When  the  orient  moon  of  Islam  rolled  in  triumph 
From  Caucasus  to  white  Ceraunia ! 
25 


Ruin  above,  and  anarchy  below  ; 
Terror  without,  and  treachery  within  ; 
The  chalice  of  destruction  full,  and  all 
ThirsfLiig  to  driidv ;  and  who  among  us  dares 
To  dash  it  from  liis  lips  1   and  where  is  Hope  I 


Tlie  lamp  of  our  dominion  still  rides  high ; 
One  God  is  God — Mahomet  is  his  Prophet. 
Four  hundred  thousand  Moslems,  from  the  limits 
Of  utmost  Asia,  irresistibly 
Throng,  like  full  clouds  at  the"  Sirocco's  crj'. 
But  not  like  them  to  weep  their  strength  in  tears; 
They  have  destroying  lightning,  and  their  step 
Wakes  earthquakes,  to  consume  and  overwhelm, 
And  reign  in  ruin.     Phrygian  Olympus, 
Tmolus,  and  Latmos,  and  Mycale,  roughen 
With  horrent  arms,  and  lofty  ships,  even  now. 
Like  vapours  anchored  to  a  mountain's  edge. 
Freighted  with  fire  and  whirlwind,  wait  at  Scala 
The  convoy  of  the  ever-veering  wind. 
Samos  is  drunk  with  blood  ; — 'the  Greek  has  paid 
Brief  victory  with  swift  loss  and  long  despair. 
The  false  Moldavian  serfs  fled  fast  and  far 
When  the  fierce  shout  of  Allah-illa-Allah  ! 
Rose  like  the  war-cry  of  the  northern  wind. 
Which  kills  the  sluggish  clouds,  and  leaves  a  flock 
Of  wild  swans  struggling  with  the  naked  storm. 
So  were  the  lost  Greeks  on  the  Danube's  day  ! 
If  night  is  mute,  yet  the  returning  sun. 
Kindles  the  voices  of  the  morning  birds  ; 
Nor  at  thy  bidding  less  exultingly 
Than  birds  rejoicing  in  the  golden  day. 
The  anarchies  of  Africa  unleash 
Their  tempest-w  inged  cities  of  the  sea. 
To  speak  in  thunder  to  the  rebel  world.       [storm. 
Like    sulphureous  clouds    half-shattered    by    the 
They  sweep  the  pale  ^Egean,  while  the  Queen 
Of  Ocean,  bound  upon  her  island  throne. 
Far  in  the  West,  sits  mourning  that  her  sons. 
Who  frown  on  Freedom,  spare  a  smile  for  thee  ; 
Russia  still  hovers,  as  an  eagle  might 
Within  a  clond,  near  which  a  kite  and  crane 
Hang  tangled  in  inextricable  fight, 
To  stoop  upon  the  victor;  for  she  fears 
The  name  of  Freedom,  even  as  she  hates  thine : 
But  recreant  Austria  loves  thee  as  the  Grave 
Loves  Pestilence,  and  her  slow  dogs  of  war. 
Fleshed  with  the  chase,  come  up  from  Italy, 
And  howl  upon  their  limits ;  for  they  see 
The  panther  Freedom  fled  to  her  old  cover. 
Amid  seas  and  mountains,  and  a  mightier  brood 
Crouch  around.     What  Anarch  wears  a  crown  or 

mitre. 
Or  bears  the  sword,  or  grasps  the  key  of  gold. 
Whose  friends  are  not  thy  friends,  whose  foes  thy 

foes  I 
Our  arsenals  and  our  armories  are  full ; 
Our  forts  defy  assaults ;  ten  thousand  cannon 
liie  ranged  upon  the  beach,  and  hour  by  hour 
Their  earth-convulsing  wheels  afFright  the  city; 
The  galloping  of  fiery  steeds  makes  pale 
The  Christian  merchant,  and  the  yellow  Jew 
Hides  his  hoard  deeper  in  the  faithless  earth. 
Like  clouds,  and  like  the  shadows  of  the  clouds, 
R 


194 


HELLAS. 


Over  the  hills  of  Anatolia, 

Swift  in  wide  troops  the  Tartiir  chivalry 

Sweep  ; — the  far-Hashing  of  their  starry  lanccS 

Roverherates  the  dying  light  of  day. 

We  have  one  God,  one  King,  one  Hope,  one  Law; 

But  many-headed  Insurrection  stands 

Divided  in  itself,  and  soon  must  fall. 


Proud  words,  when  deeds  come  short,  are  season- 
able ; 
Look,  Hassan,  on  yon  crescent  moon,  emblazoned 
Upon  that  shattered  flag  of  fiery  cloud 
Which  leads  the  rear  of  the  departing  day, 
Wan  emlileui  of  an  empire  fading  now  ! 
See  how  it  tremlilcs  in  the  blood-red  air. 
And  like  a  mighty  lamp  whose  oil  is  spent, 
Shrinks  on  the  horizon's  edge,  while,  from  above, 
One  star  with  insolent  and  victorious  light 
Hovers  above  its  fall,  and  with  keen  beams, 
Like  arrows  through  a  iainting  antelope, 
Strikes  its  weak  form  to  death. 


Even  as  that  moon 


itself- 


Shall  we  be  not  renewed  ! 
Far  other  bark  than  ours  were  needed  now 
To  stem  the  torrent  of  descending  time  : 
The  spirit  that  lifts  the  slave  before  its  lord 
Stalks  through  the  capitals  of  armed  kings, 
And  spreads  his  ensign  in  the  wilderness ; 
Exults  in  chains;  and  when  the  rebel  falls, 
Cries  like  the  blood  of  Abel  from  the  dust ; 
And  the  inheritors  of  earth,  like  beasts 
When  earthquake  is  unleashed,  with  idiot  fear 
Cower  in  their  kingly  dens — as  I  do  now. 
What  were  Defeat,  when  Victory  nuist  appal  ] 
Or  Danger,  when  Security  looks  pale  1 
How  said  the  messenger — who  from  the  fort 
Islanded  in  the  Danube,  saw  the  battle 
Of  Bucharest  ?— that— 

HASSAX. 

Ibrahim's  cimeter 
Drew  with  its  gleam  swift  victory  from  Heaven. 
To  burn  before  him  in  the  night  of  battle — 
A  light  and  a  destruction. 


Was  ours !  but  how  1 — 


Ay !  the  day 


The  light  Wallachians, 
The  Amaut,  Sersnan,  and  Albanian  allies, 
Fl<'d  from  the  glance  of  our  artillery 
Almost  before  the  thunderstone  aUt; 
One  half  the  Grecian  army  made  a  bridge 
Of  safe  and  slow  retreat,  with  Moslem  dead; 
The  other — 


Speak — ^tremble  not — 


Islanded 
By  victor  myriads,  formed  in  hollow  square 
With  rough  and  steadfast  front,  and  thrice  flung 
The  deluge  of  our  foaming  cavalry  ;  [bacji 

Thrice  their  keen  wedge  of  battle  pierced  our  Unes. 
Our  baffled  army  trembled  like  one  man 
Before  a  host,  and  gave  them  space ;  but  soon. 
From  the  surrounding  hills,  the  batteries  blazed, 
Kneading  them  down  with  tire  and  iron  rain. 
Yet  none  approached  ;  till  like  a  field  of  corn 
Under  the  hook  of  the  swart  sickle-man. 
The  bands,  intrenched  in  mounds  of  Turkish  dead, 
Grew  weak  and  few.  Then  said  the  Pacha, "  Slaves, 
Pender  yourselves — they  have  abandoned  you — 
What  hope  of  refuge,  or  retreat,  or  aid  ] 
We  grant  your  lives."' — "Grant  that  which  is  thine 

own," 
Cried  one,  and  fell  upon  his  sword  and  died ! 
Another — '  God,  and  man,  and  hope  abandon  me  ; 
But  I  to  them  and  to  myself  remain 
Constant ;"  he  bowed  his  head,  and  his  heart  burst. 
A  third  exclaimed,  "There  is  a  refuge,  tyrant. 
Where    thou    darest   not    pursue,  and   canst  not 

harm. 
Shouldst  thou  pursue  ;  there  we  shall  meet  again." 
Then  held  his  breath,  and,  after  a  brief  spasm, 
The  indignant  spirit  cast  its  mortal  garment 
Among  the  slain — dead  earth  upon  the  earth! 
So  these  survivors,  each  by  dififerent  ways, 
Some  strange,  all  sudden,  none  dishonourable, 
Met  in  triumphant  death ;  and  when  our  army 
Closed  in,  while  yet  wonder,  and  awe,  and  shame 
Held  back  the  base  hyenas  of  the  battle 
That  feed  upon  the  dead  and  fly  the  living. 
One  rose  out  of  the  chaos  of  the  slain  ; 
And  if  it  were  a  corpse  which  some  dread  spirit 
Of  the  old  saviours  of  the  land  we  rule 
Had  lifted  in  its  anger,  wandering  by ; 
Or  if  there  burned  within  the  dying  man 
Unquenchable  disdain  of  death,  and  faith 
Creating  what  it  feigned; — I  cannot  tell: 
But  he  cried,  "  Phantoms  of  the  free,  we  come  ! 
Armies  of  the  Eternal,  ye  who  strike 
To  dust  the  citadels  of  sanguine  kings, 
And  shake  the  souls  throned  on  their  stony  hearts, 
And  thaw  their  frost-work  diadems  like  dew ; — 
O  ye  who  float  around  their  clime,  and  weave 
The  garment  of  the  glory  which  it  wears  ; 
Whose  fame,  though  earth  betray  the  dust  it  clasped, 
Lies  sepulchred  in  monumental  thought; — 
Progenitors  of  all  that  yet  is  great. 
Ascribe  to  your  bright  senate,  O  accept 
In  your  high  ministrations,  us,  your  sons — 
Us  first,  and  the  more  glorious  yet  to  come ! 
And  ye  weak  conquerors!  giants  who  look  pale 
MHien    the    crushed  worm   rebels   beneath  your 

tread — 
The  vultures,  and  the  dogs,  your  pensioners  tame, 
Are  overgorged  ;  but,  like  o{ (pressors,  still 
They  crave  the  relic  of  Destruction's  feast. 
The  exhalations  and  the  thirsty  winds 
Are  sick  with  blood ;  the  dew  is  foul  with  death — 
Heaven's  light  is  quenched  in  slaughter:  Thus 

where'er 


HELLAS. 


195 


Upon  your  camps,  cities,  or  towers,  or  fleets, 
The  obscene  birds  the  reeking  remnants  cast 
Of  these  dead  limbs,  upon  your  streams  and  moun- 
tains, 
Upon  your  fields,  your  gardens,  and  your  housetops, 
Where'er  tlie  winds  shall  creep,  or  the  clouds  fly, 
"Or  the  dews  fall,  or  the  angry  sun  look  down 
With  poisoned  light — Famine,  and  Pestilence, 
And  Panic,  shall  wage  w'ar  upon  our  side! 
Nature  from  all  her  boundaries  is  moved 
Against  ye:  Time  has  found  ye  ligiit  as  foam.  . 
The  earth  rebels ;  and  Good  and  Evil  stake 
Their  empire  o'er  the  unborn  world  of  men 
On  this  one  cast — but  ere  tlie  die  be  thrown, 
The  renovated  genius  of  our  race. 
Proud  umpire  of  the  impious  game,  descends 
A  seraph-winged  Victory,  bestriding 
The  tempest  of  the  Omnipotence  of  God, 
Which  sweeps  all  things  to  their  appointed  doom, 
And  you  to  oblivion  !"' — More  he  would  liavc  said. 
But— 

MAHMUD. 

Died — as  thou  shouldst  ere  thy  lips  had  painted 
Their  ruin  in  the  hues  of  our  success. 
A  rebel's  crime,  gilt  with  a  rebel's  tongue ! 
Your  heart  is  Greek,  Hassan. 

UASSAS. 

It  may  be  so : 
A  spirit  not  my  own  wrenched  me  within. 
And  I  have  spoken  words  I  fear  and  hate ; 
Yet  would  I  die  for — 

MAHMUD. 

Live !  O  live  !  outlive 
Me  and  this  sinking  empire : — but  the  fleet — 


HASSAX. 


Alas! 


The  fleet  which,  like  a  flock  of  clouds 
Chased  by  the  wind,  flies  the  insurgent  banner. 
Our  winged  castles  from  their  merchant  ships ! 
Our  mj'riads  before  their  weak  pirate  bands ! 
Our  arms  before  tlieir  chains  !  Our  years  of  empire 
Before  their  centuries  of  servile  fear ! 
Death  is  aw\ake !  Repulsed  on  the  waters. 
They  own  no  more  the  thunder-bearing  banner 
Of  Mahmud ;  but  like  hounds  of  a  base  breed. 
Gorge  from   a    stranger's  hand,   and  rend    their 
master. 


Latmos,  and  Ampelos,  and  Phanae,  saw 
The  wreck — 

■jiAHMpn. 
The  caves  of  the  Icarian  isles 
Hold  each  to  the  other  in  loud  mockery, 
And  with  the  tongue  as  of  a  thousand  echoes 
First  of  the  sea-convulsing  fight — and  then — 
Thou  darest  to  speak^senseless  are  the  mountains, 
Interpret  thou  their  voice  ! 


My  presence  bore 


A  part  in  that  day's  shame.     The  Grecian  fleet 

Bore  down  at  daybreak  from  the  North,  and  hung 

As  multitudinous  on  the  ocean  line 

As  cranes  upon  the  cloudless  Thracian  wind. 

Our  squadron  convoying  ten  thousand  men. 

Was  stretching  towards  Nauplia  when  the  battle 

Was  kindled. — 

First  through  the  hail  of  our  artillery 

The  agile  Hydriotc  barks  with  press  of  sail 

Dashed : — ship  to  ship,  cannon  to  cannon,  man 

To  man,  were  grappled  in  the  embrace  of  war, 

Inextricable  but  by  death  or  victory. 

The  tempest  of  the  raging  fight  convulsed 

To  its  crystalline  depths  that  stainless  sea, 

And  shook  heaven's  roof  of  golden  morning  clouds 

Poised  on  a  hundred  azure  mountain-isles. 

In  the  brief  trances  of  the  artillery, 

One  cry  from  the  destroyed  and  the  destroyer 

Rose,  and  a  cloud  of  desolation  wrapt 

The  unforeseen  event,  till  the  north  wuid 

Sprung  from  the  sea,  Ufling  the  heavy  veil 

Of  battle  smoke — then  victory — victory  ! 

For,  as  we  thought,  three  frigates  from  Algiers 

Bore  down  fi-om  Naxos  to  our  aid,  but  soon 

The  abhorred  cross  glimmered  behind,  before, 

Among,  around  us ;  and  that  fatal  sign 

Dried  with  its  beams  the  strength  of  Moslem  hearts, 

As  the  sun  drinks  the  dew. — What  more  ?  We  fled ! 

Our  noonday  path  over  the  sanguine  foam 

Was  beaconed,  and  the  glare  struck  the  sun  pale, 

By  our  consuming  transports :  the  fierce  light 

Made  all  the  shadows  of  our  sails  blood-red, 

And  every  countenance  blank.     Some  sliips  lay 

feeding 
The  ravening  fire  even  to  the  water's  level : 
Some  were  blown  up ;  some,  settling  heavily. 
Sunk ;  and  the  shrieks  of  our  companions  died 
Upon  the  wind,  that  bore  us  fast  and  far, 
Even  after  they  were  dead.  Nine  thousand  perished ! 
We  met  the  vultures  legioned  in  the  air, 
Stemming  the  torrent  of  the  tainted  wind: 
The}^  screaming  from  their  cloudy  mountain  peaks. 
Stooped  through  the  sulphureous  battle-smoke,  and 

perched 
Each  on  the  weltering  carcass  that  we  loved, 
Like  its  ill  angel  or  its  damned  soul. 
Riding  upon  the  bosom  of  the  sea, 
We  saw  the  dog-fish  hastening  to  their  feast. 
Joy  waked  the  voiceless  people  of  the  sea. 
And  ravening  funine  left  his  ocean-cave 
To  dwell  with  war,  with  us,  and  with  despair. 
We  met  night  three  hours  to  the  west  of  Patmos, 
As  with  night,  tempest — 

MAHMUD, 

Cease ! 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

JIESSF.N'GEU. 

Your  Sublime  Highness, 
That  Christian  hound,  the  Muscovite  ambassador, 
Has  left  the  city.     If  the  rebel  fleet 
Had  anchored  in  the  port,  had  victory 
Crowned  the  Greek  legions  in  the  Hippodrome, 
Panic  were  tamer. — Obedience  and  Mutiny, 
Like  giants  in  contention  planet-struck. 


196 


HELLAS. 


Stand  gazing  on  each  other. — ^There  is  peace 

In  Stamboul. — 

MAHMUr. 

Is  the  grave  not  calmer  still  ? 
Its  ruins  shall  be  mine. 

HASSAN. 

Fear  not  the  Russian ; 
The  tiger  leagues  not  with  the  stag  at  bay 
Against  the  hunter. — Cunning,  base,  and  cruel, 
He  crouches,  watching  till  the  spoil  be  won, 
And  must  be  paid  for  liis  ^eser^'e  in  blood. 
Af^er  the  war  is  fought,  yield  the  sleek  Russian 
That  which    thou  canst  not    keep,  his   deserved 

portion 
Of  blood,  which  shall  not  flow  through  streets  and 

fields, 
Rivers  and  seas,  like  that  which  we  may  win, 
But  stagnate  in  the  veins  of  Christian  slaves ! 

Enter  Second  Messenger. 

SECOXD    MESSENGER. 

Nauplia,  Tripolizza,  Mothon,  Athens, 

Navarin,  Artas,  Monembasia, 

Corinth  and  Thebes,  are  carried  by  assault ; 

And  every  Islamite  who  made  his  dogs 

Fat  with  the  flesh  of  Galilean  slaves, 

Passed  at  the  edge  of  the  sword :  the  lust  of  blood, 

Which  made  our  warriors  drunk,  is  quenched  in 

death ; 
But  like  a  fiery  plague  breaks  out  anew 
In  deeds  which  make  the  Christian  cause  look  pale 
In  its  own  light.     The  garrison  of  Patras 
Has  store  but  for  ten  days,  nor  is  there  hope 
But  fi-om  the  Briton ;  at  once  slave  and  tyrant, 
His  wishes  still  are  weaker  than  his  fears ; 
Or  he  would  sell  what  faith  may  yet  remain 
From  the  oaths  broke  in  Genoa  and  in  Norway ; 
And  if  you  buy  him  not,  your  trcasurj- 
Is  empty  even  of  promises — ^his  own  coin. 
The  freeman  of  a  western  poet  chief     ' 
Holds  Attica  with  seven  thousand  rebels. 
And  has  beat  back  the  Pacha  of  Negropont ; 
The  aged  Ali  sits  in  Yanina, 
A  crownless  metaphor  of  empire ; 
His  name,  that  shadow  of  his  withered  might. 
Holds  our  besieging  army  hke  a  spell 
In  prey  to  famine^  pest,  and  mutiny  : 
He,  bastioned  in  his  citadel,  looks  forth 
Joyless  upon  the  sapphire  lake  that  mirrors 
The  ruins  of  the  city  where  he  reigned 
Childless  and  sceptreless.     The  Greek  has  reaped 
The  costly  han'est  his  own  blood  matured, 
Not  the  sower,  Ali — who  has  bought  a  truce 
From  Ypsilanti,  with  ten  camel-loads 
Of  Indian  gold. 

Enter  a  Third  .Messenger. 
MAHMrn. 
What  more  ] 

TliniD    MESSENGER. 

The  Christian  tribes 
Of  Lebanon  and  the  Syrian  wilderness 
Are  in  revolt ; — Damascus,  Hems,  Aleppo, 


Tremble  ; — the  Arab  menaces  Medina; 
The  Ethiop  has  intrenched  himself  in  Sennaar, 
And  keeps  the  Egyptian  rebel  well  employed. 
Who  denies  homage,  claims  investiture 
As  price  of  tardy  aid.     Persia  demands 
The  cities  on  the  Tigris,  and  the  Georgians 
Refuse  their  living  tribute.     Crete  and  Cyprus, 
Like  mountain-twins  that  from  each  other's  veins 
Catch  the  volcano-fire  and  earthquake  spasm. 
Shake  in  the  general  fever.     Through  the  city. 
Like  birds'  before  a  storm,  the  Santons  shriek. 
And  prophesjnngs  horrible  and  new 
Are  heard  among  the  crowd ;  that  sea  of  men 
Sleeps  on  the  wrecks  it  made,  breathless  and  still. 
A  Dervisc,  learned  in  the  Koran,  preaches 
That  it  is  written  how  the  sins  of  Islam 
Must  raise  up  a  destroyer  even  now. 
The  Greeks  expect  a  Saviour  from  the  west ; 
Who  shall  not  come,  men  say,  in  clouds  and  glory. 
But  in  the  omnipresence  of  that  spirit 
In  which  all  live  and  are.     Ominous  signs 
Are  blazoned  broadly  on  the  noonday  sky ; 
One  saw  a  red  cross  stamped  upon  the  sun ; 
It  has  rained  blood  ;  and  monstrous  births  declare 
Tlie  secret  wrath  of  Nature  and  her  Lord. 
The  army  encamped  upon  the  Cydaris 
Was  roused  last  night  by  the  alami  of  battle, 
And  saw  two  hosts  conflicting  in  the  air, — 
The  shadows  doubtless  of  the  unborn  time. 
Cast  on  the  miiTor  of  the  night.     While  yet 
The  fight  hung  balanced,  there  arose  a  storm 
Which  swept  the  phantoms  from  among  the  stars. 
At  the  third  watch  the  spirit  of  the  plague 
Was  heard  abroad  flapping  among  the  tents : 
Those  who  relieved  watch  found  the  sentinels  dead. 
The  last  news  from  the  camp  is,  that  a  thousand 
Have  sickened,  and — 

Enter  a  Fourth  Messenger. 

MAHMUD. 

And  thou,  pale  ghost,  dim  shadow 
Of  some  untimely  rumour,  speak ! 

FOURTH    MESSENGER. 

One  comes 
Fainting  with  toil,  covered  with  foam  and  blood ; 
He  stood,  he  says,  upon  Clelonit's 
Promontory,  which  o'crlooks  the  isles  that  groan 
Under  the  Briton's  frown,  and  all  their  waters 
Then  trembling  in  the  splendour  of  the  moon ; 
When,  as  the  wandering  clouds  unveiled  or  hid 
Her  boundless  light,  he  saw  two  adverse  fleets 
Stalk  through  the  night  in  the  horizon's  glimmer, 
Mingling  fierce  thunders  and  sulphureous  gleams. 
And  smoke  which  strangled  cvcrv'  infant  wind 
That  soothed  the  silver  clouds  through  the  deep  air. 
At  length  the  battle  slept,  but  the  Sirocco 
Awoke,  and  drove  his  flock  of  thunder-clouds 
Over  the  sea-horizon,  blotting  out 
All  objects — save  that  in  the  faint  moon-glimpse 
He  saw,  or  dreamed  he  saw  the  Turkish  admiral 
And  two,  the  loftiest,  of  our  ships  of  war. 
With  the  bright  image  of  that  Queen  of  Heaven, 
Who  hid,  perhaps,  her  face  for  grief,  reversed  ; 
And  the  abhorred  cross — 


HELLAS. 


197 


Enter  an  Attendant. 
ATTEXDANT. 

Your  Sublime  Highness, 
The  Jew,  who — 

MAHMUD. 

Could  not  come  more  seasonably ; 
Bid  him  attend.     I'll  hear  no  more  !  too  long 
We  gaze  on  danger  tlirougli  the  mist  of  fear, 
And  multiply  upon  our  shattered  hopes 
The  images  of  ruin.     Come  what  will ! 
To-morrow  and  to-morrow  are  as  lamps 
Set  in  our  path  to  light  us  to  the  edge,         [aught 
Through  rough  and  smooth ;   nor   can  we  suffer 
Wliich  he  inflicts  not  in  whose  hand  we  are. 

[Ejceunt. 

SEMICHORUS     I. 

Would  I  were  the  winged  cloud 
Of  a  tempest  swift  and  loud ! 
I  would  scorn 
Tile  smile  of  morn 
And  the  wave  where  the  moonrise  is  born  ! 
I  would  leave 
The  spuits  of  eve 
A  shroud  for  the  corpse  of  the  day  to  weave 
From  other  threads  than  mine  ! 
Bask  in  the  blue  noon  divine 

Who  would,  not  L  •  . 

SEMICHOnUS    II. 

Whither  to  fly  1 

SEMICHOHUS    I. 

Where  the  rocks  that  girtth'  ^Egean 
Echo  to  the  battle  paean 
Of  the  free— 
I  would  flee 
A  tempestuous  herald  of  victory ! 
My  golden  rain 
For  the  Grecian  slain 
Should  mingle  in  tears  with  the  bloody  main  ; 
And  my  solemn  thunder-knell 
Should  ring  to  the  world  the  passing-bell 
Of  tyranny ! 

SEJIICHOUrS    II. 

Ah  king !  wilt  thou  chain 
The  rack  and  the  rain  1 
Wilt  thou  fetter  the  lightning  and  hurricane  1 
The  storms  are  free, 
But  we — 

CHonrs. 
0  Slavery  !  thou  frost  of  the  world's  prime, 

Killing  its  flowers  and  leaving  its  thorns  bare ! 
Thy  touch  has  stamped  these  hmbs  with  crime. 
These  brows  tiiy  branding  garland  bear ; 
But  the  free  heart,  the  impassive  soul. 
Scorn  thy  control ! 

SEMICHOUUS    I. 

I/Ct  there  be  light !  said  Liberty ; 
And  like  sunrise  from  the  sea, 
Athens  arose  ! — Around  her  born. 
Shone  like  mountains  in  the  morn. 
Glorious  states ; — and  are  they  now 
Ashes,  wrecks,  oblivion  ? 


SEMICHOHUS    II. 


Go 


Where  Thcnnffi  and  Asopus  swallowed 
Persia,  as  the  sand  does  foam. 

Deluge  upon  deluge  followed. 
Discord,  Macedon,  and  Rome : 

And  lastly,  thou ! 

SEMICHOHUS    I. 

Temples  and  towers, 
Citadels  and  marts,  and  they 

Who  live  and  die  there,  have  been  ours. 
And  may  be  thiue,  and  must  decay ; 

But  Greece  and  her  foundations  are 

Built  below  the  tide  of  war. 

Based  on  the  crj-stalline  sea 

Of  thought  and  its  eternity ; 
Her  citizens,  imperial  spirits, 

Rule  the  present  from  the  past, 
On  all  this  world  of  men  inherits 

Their  seal  is  set. 

SEMICHOHUS    II. 

Hear  ye  the  blast, 
W^hose  Orphic  thunder  thrilling  calls 
From  ruin  her  Titanian  walls  1 
Whose  spirit  shakes  the  sapless  bones 

Of  Slavery  ?    Argos,  Corinth,  Crete, 
Hear,  and  from  their  mountain  thrones 

The  demons  and  the  nymphs  repeat 
The  hai'mony. 

SEMICHOHUS    I. 

I  hear !    I  hear ! 

SEMICHOHUS    II. 

The  v?orld's  ej^eless  charioteer, 

Destiny,  is  hurrying  by  ! 
What  faith  is  crushed,  what  empire  bleeds 
Beneath  her  earthquake-footed  steeds  1 
What  eagle-winged  victory  sits 
At  her  right  hand  ?  what  shadow  flits 
Before  ]   what  splendour  rolls  behind  1 

Ruin  and  Renovation  cry, 
Who  but  we  1 

SEMICHOHUS    I. 

I  hear !  I  hear ! 
The  hiss  as  of  a  rushing  wind. 
The  roar  as  of  an  ocean  foaming. 
The  thunder  as  of  earthquake  coming, 

I  hear !  I  hear  ! 
The  crash  as  of  an  empire  falling. 
The  shrieks  as  of  a  people  calling 
Mercy  !  Mercy  ! — How  they  thrill ! 
Then  a  shout  of  "  Kill !  kill !  kill ! 
And  then  a  small  still  voice,  thus — 


SEMICHOHUS    II. 


For 


Revenge  and  wrong  bring  forth  their  kind, 
'J'he  foul  cubs  like  their  parents  are, 

Their  den  is  in  their  guilty  mind. 

And  Conscience  feeds  them  with  despair. 
r2 


198 


HELLAS. 


sEMicHonus  r. 
In  sacred  Athens,  near  the  fone 

Of  Wisdom,  Pity's  altar  stood ; 
Serve  not  the  unknown  Goii  in  vain, 
But  pay  that  broken  shrine  again 

Love  for  hate,  and  tears  for  blood. 

Enter  Mau.mud  and  Ahasuerus. 
MAHMrD. 

Thou  art  a  man,  thou  sayest,  even  as  we — 


AHASUEBCS. 


No  more ! 


MAHMFD. 

But  raised  above  thy  fellow-men 
By  thought,  as  I  by  power. 

AHASUEUUS. 

Thou  sayest  so. 

MAHMUD. 

Thou  art  an  adept  in  the  difficult  lore 

Of  Greek  and  Frank  philosophy  ;  thou  nurnberest 

The  flowers,  and  thou  measures!  the  stars ; 

Thou  severest  clement  from  element ; 

Thy  spirit  is  present  in  the  past,  and  sees 

The  birth  of  this  old  world  through  all  its  cycles 

Of  desolation  and  of  loveliness ; 

And  when  man  was  not,  and  how  man  became 

The  monarch  and  the  slave  of  this  low  sphere, 

And  all  its  narrow  circles — it  is  much. 

I  honour  thee,  and  would  be  what  thou  art 

Were  I  not  what  I  am ;  but  the  unborn  hour, 

Cradled  in  fear  and  hope,  conflicting  storms, 

W^ho  shall  unveil  ]    Nor  thou,  nor  I,  nor  any 

Mighty  or  wise.     I  apprehended  not 

What  thou  hast  taught  me,  but  I  now  perceive 

That  thou  art  no  interpreter  of  dreams ; 

Thou  dost  not  own  that  art,  device,  or  God, 

Can  make  the  future  present — let  it  come ! 

Moreover  thou  disdainest  us  and  ours ! 

Thou  art  as  God,  whom  thou  contemplatcst. 

AHASUERUS. 

Disdain  thee  1 — not  the  worm  beneath  my  feet ! 
The  Fathomless  has  care  for  meaner  things 
Than  thou  canst  dream,  and  has  made  pride  for 

those 
W^ho  would  be  what  they  may  not,  or  would  seem 
That  which  tliey  are  not.     Sultan  !  talk  no  more 
Of  thee  and  me,  the  future  and  the  past; 
But  look  on  that  which  cannot  change — the  One 
The  unborn,  and  the  undying.     Earth  and  ocean. 
Space,  and  the  isles  of  life  or  light  that  gem 
The  sapphire  floods  of  interstellar  air, 
This  firmament  pavilioned  upon  chaos, 
With  all  its  cressets  of  immortal  fire. 
Whose  outwall,  bastioned  imprcgnably 
Against  the  escape  of  boldest  thoughts,  repels  them 
As  Calpe  the  Atlantic  clouds — this  whole 
Of  suns,  and  worlds,  and   men,  and  beasts  and 

flowers, 
With  all  the  silent  or  tempestuous  workings 
By  which  they  have  been,  are,  or  cease  to  be, 
Is  but  a  vision  ; — all  that  it  inherits 
Are  motes  of  a  sick  eye,  bubbles,  and  dreams ; 


Thought  is  its  cradle  and  its  grave,  nor  less 
The  future  and  the  past  are  idle  shadows 
Of  thought's  eternal  flight — they  have  no  being ; 
Nought  is  but  that  it  feels  itself  to  be. 

MAintUD. 

What  meanest  thou "?  thy  words  stream  like  a  tempest 
Of  dazzling  mist  within  my  brain — they  shake 
The  earth  on  which  I  stand,  and  hang  like  night 
On  Heaven  above  me.     What  can  they  availl 
Tliey  cast  on  all  things,  surest,  brightest,  best, 
Doubt,  insecurity,  astonishment. 

AHASUERUS. 

Mistake  me  not !    All  Ls  contained  in  each. 

Dodona's  forest  to  an  acorn's  cup 

Is  that  wliich  has  been  or  will  be,  to  that 

Which  is — the  absent  to  the  present.     Thought 

Alone,  and  its  quick  elements.  Will,  Passion, 

Reason,  Imagination,  caimot  die  ; 

They  are  what  that  which  they  regard  appears. 

The  stuff  whence  mutability  can  weave 

All  that  it  hath  dominion  o'er, — worlds,  worms. 

Empires,  and  superstitions.     W^hat  has  thought 

To  do  with  time,  or  place,  or  circumstance  7 

Wouklst  thou  behold  the  future  ? — ask  and  have! 

Knock  and  it  shall  be  opened — look,  and  !o  ! 

The  coming  age  is  shadowed  on  the  past. 

As  on  a  glass.  ' 

MAHMUD. 

W'ild,  wilder  thoughts  convulse 
My  spirit — Did  not  Mahomet  the  Second 
Win  Stamboull 

AHASUERUS. 

Thou  wouldst  ask  that  giant  spirit 
The  written  fortunes  of  thy  house  and  fiiith. 
Thou  wouldst  cite  one  out  of  the  grave  to  tell 
How  what  was  born  in  blood  must  die. 


Have  power  on  me !  I  see — 


Thy  words 


A  far  whisper — 
Terrible  silence. 


AHASUERUS. 

What  hearest  thou  T 


AHASUERUS. 

What  succeeds  1 


MAHMUD. 

The  sound 
As  of  the  assault  of  an  imperial  city, 
The  hiss  of  inextinguishable  fire, 
The  roar  of  giant  caimon ; — the  earthquakmg 
Fall  of  bastions  and  precipitous  towers, 
The  shock  of  crags  shot  from  strange  engin'ry, 
The  clash  of  wheels,  and  clang  of  armed  hoofs, 
And  crash  of  brazen  mail,  as  of  the  wreck 
Of  adamantine  mountains — the  mad  blast 
Of  trumpets,  and  the  neigh  of  raging  steeds. 
And  shrieks  of  women  whose  thrill  jars  the  blood. 
And  one  sweet  laugh,  most  horrible  to  hear. 
As  of  a  joyous  infant  waked,  and  playing 
With  its  dead  mother's  breast :  and  now  more  loud 


HELLAS. 


199 


The  mingled  battlc-rry — ha  !  hear  I  not 
'Ev  TovTM  vUn.     Allah-illah-AlIah ! 

AHASUEUCS. 

The  sulphureous  niist  is  raised — thou  sccst — 

MAIIMUI). 

A  chasm, 
As  of  two  mountains,  in  the  wall  of  Slaniboul ; 
And  in  that  ghastly  breach  the  Islamites, 
Like  giants  on  the  ruins  of  a  world, 
Stand  in  tlie  light  of  sunrise.     In  the  dust 
Glimmers  a  kingless  diadem,  and  one 
Of  regal  port  has  cast  himself  beneath 
The  stream  of  war.     Another  proudly  clad 
In  golden  arms,  spurs  a  Tartarian  barb 
Into  the  gap,  and  with  his  iron  mace 
Directs  the  torrent  of  that  tide  of  men. 
And  seems — he  is — Mahomet ! 

AHASUERUS. 

What  thou  see'st 
Is  but  the  ghost  of  thy  forgotten  dream ; 
A  dream  itself,  yet  less,  perhaps,  than  that 
Thou  call'st  reahty.     Thou  mayst  behold 
How  cities,  on  which  empire  sleeps  enthroned, 
Bow  their  towered  crests  to  mutability. 
Poised  by  the  flood,  e'en  on  the  height  thou  holdest, 
Thou  mayst  now  learn  how  the  full  tide  of  power 
Ebbs  to  its  depths. — Inheritor  of  glory. 
Conceived  in  darkness,  born  in  blood,  and  nourished 
With  tears  and  toil,  thou  seest  the  mortal  throes 
Of  that  whose  birth  was  but  the  same.     The  Past 
Now  stands  before  thee  like  an  Incarnation 
Of  the  To-come ;  yet  wouldst  thou  cominimc  with 
That  portion  of  thyself  which  was  ere  thou 
Didst  start  for  this  brief  race  whose  crown  is  death ; 
Dissolve  with  that  strong  faith  and  fervent  passion 
Which  called  it  from  the  uncreated  deep. 
Yon  cloud  of  war  with  its  tempestuous  phantoms 
Of  raging  death  ;  and  draw  with  mighty  will 
The  imperial  shade  hither. 

l^Eiit  Ahasuerus. 


Approach ! 

PHAS^TOM. 

I  come 
Thence  whither  thou  must  go !  The  grave  is  fitter 
To  take  the  living,  than  give  up  the  dead ; 
Yet  has  thy  faith  prevailed,  ajid  I  am  here. 
The  heavy  fragments  of  the  power  which  fell 
When  I  arose,  like  shapeless  crags  and  clouds, 
Hang  round  my  throne  on  the  abyss,  and  voices 
Of  strange  lament  soothe  my  supreme  repose, 
Waiting  for  glory  never  to  return. — ■ 
A  later  Empire  nods  in  its  decay ; 
The  autumn  of  a  greener  faith  is  come. 
And  wolfish  change,  like  winter,  howls  to  strip 
The  foliage  in  which  Fame,  the  eagle,  built 
Her  aerie,  while  Dominion  whel[)ed  below. 
The  storm  is  in  its  branches,  and  the  frost 
Is  on  its  leaves,  and  the  blank  deep  expects 
Oblivion  on  oblivion,  spoil  on  spoil. 
Ruin  on  ruin  :  thou  art  slow,  my  son ; 


The  Anarchs  of  the  world  of  darkness  keep 

A  throne  for  thee,  round  which  thine  em])ire  lies 

Doundless  and  mute  ;  and  for  thy  subjects  thou, 

Like  us,  shall  rule  the  ghosts  of  murdered  life. 

The  phantoms  of  the  powers  who  rule  thee  now — 

Mutinous  passions  and  conflicting  fears. 

And  hopes  that  sate  themselves  on  dust  and  die ! 

Stript  of  their  mortal  strength,  as  thou  of  thine. 

Islam  must  fall,  but  we  will  reign  together 

Over  its  ruins  in  the  world  of  death.- — 

And  if  the  trunk  b(!  dry,  yet  shall  the  seed 

Unfold  itself  even  in  the  shape  of  that 

Which  gathers  birth  in  its  decay.     Wo  !  wo  ! 

To  the  weak  jieople  tangled  in  the  grasp 

Of  its  last  sj^asms. 

XAUMtrn. 

Spirit  wo  to  all ! 
Wo  to  the  wronged  and  the  avenger !     Wo 
To  the  destroyer,  wo  to  the  destroyed  ! 
Wo  to  the  dupe,  and  wo  to  the  deceiver  ! 
Wo  to  the  oppressed,  and  wo  to  the  oppressor ! 
Wo  both  to  those  that  sufltjr  and  inflict; 
Those  who  are  born,  and  those  who  die  !  But  say 
Imperial  shadow  of  the  thing  I  am. 
When,  how,  by  whom.  Destruction  must  accomplish 
Her  consummation  1 

PHANTOW. 

Ask  the  cold  pale  Hour, 
Rich  in  reversion  of  impending  death, 
M^hen  he  shall  fall  upon  those  ripe  gray  hairs 
Sit  care,  and  sorrow,  and  infirmity — 
The  weight  which  Crime,  whose  wings  are  plumed 

with  years. 
Leaves  in  his  flight  from  ravaged  heart  to  heart 
Over  the  heads  of  men,  under  which  burden 
They  bow  themselves  unto  the  grave :  fond  wretch ! 
He  leans  upon  his  crutch,  and  talks  of  years 
To  come,  and  how  in  hours  of  youth  renewed 
He  will  renew  lost  joys,  and 

VOICE    WITHOUT. 

Victory  !  victory  ! 
[The  Phantom  va7ii^hcs. 
MAHMUD. 

What  sound  of  the  importunate  earth  has  broken 
My  mighty  trance  1 

'     ^  VOICE     WITHOUT. 

Victory  !  victory ! 

MAHMUD. 

Weak  lightning  before  darkness  !  poor  faint  smile 
Of  dying  Islam  !      Voice  which  art  the  response 
Of  hollow  weakness !     Do  I  wake  and  live  ] 
Were  there  such  things'!  or  may  the  unquiet  brain, 
Vexed  by  the  wise  mad  talk  of  the  old  Jew, 
Have  shaped  itself  these  shadows  of  its  fear  ] 
It  matters  not! — for  nought  we  see  or  drciun. 
Possess,  or  lose,  or  grasp  at,  can  be  worth 
More  than  it  gives  or  teaches.     Come  what  may. 
The  future  must  become  the  past,  and  I 
As  they  were,  to  whom  once  this  present  hour, 
This  gloomy  crag  of  time  to  which  I  ehng. 
Seemed  an  Elysian  isle  of  peace  and  joy 


200 


HELLAS. 


Never  to  be  attained I  must  rebuke 

I'his  drunkenness  of  triunijjh  ere  it  die, 

And  dying,  bring  des})air Victory  ! — poor  slaves! 

[Eiit  Mahmud. 

VOICE    WITHOUT. 

Shout  in  the  jubilee  of  death  ]   The  Greeks 

Are  as  a  brood  of  Lions  in  the  net, 

Round  which  the  kingly  hunters  of  the  earth 

Stand  smiling.     Anarchs,  ye  whose  daily  food 

Are  curses,  groans,  and  gold,  the  fruit  of  death, 

From  Thule  to  the  girdle  of  the  world, 

Come,  feast !  the  board  groans  with  the  flesh  of  men — 

The  cup  is  foaming  with  a  nation's  blood, 

Famine  and  Thirst  await :  eat,  drink  and  die  ! 

SEMICHOnUS    I. 

Victorious  Wrong,  with  vulture  scream, 
Salutes  the  risen  sun,  pursues  the  flying  day  ! 

I  saw  her  ghastly  as  a  tyrant's  dream. 
Perch  on  the  trembling  pyramid  of  night,         [lay 
Beneath  which  earth  and  all  her  realms  pavilioned 
In  visions  of  the  dawning  undelight. 

Who  shall  impede  her  flight  1 
Who  rob  her  of  her  prey  ] 

TOICE    ■WITHOUT. 

Victory  !  victory  !  Russia's  famished  eagles 
Dare  not  to  prey  beneath  the  crescent's  light. 
Impale  the  remnant  of  the  Greeks  !  despoil ! 
Violate  !  make  their  flesh  cheaper  than  dust ! 

SEMICHORUS    II. 

Thou  voice  which  art 

The  herald  of  the  ill  in  splendour  hid ! 
Thou  echo  of  the  hollow  heart 

Of  monarchy,  bear  me  to  thine  abode 

When  desolation  flashes  o'er  a  world  destroyed. 
Oh  bear  me  to  those  isles  of  jagged  cloud 

Which  floats  like  mountains  on  the  earthquakes, 
'mid 
The  momentary  oceans  of  the  lightning ; 

Or  to  some  toppling  promontory  proud 

Of  solid  tempest,  whose  black  p3'raniid. 
Riven,  overhangs  the  founts  intensely  brightening 

Of  those  dawn-tinted  deluges  of  fire 

Before  their  waves  expire. 
When  heaven  and  earth  are  light,  and  only  light 
In  the  thunder-night ! 

TOICE    WITHOUT. 

Victory !  victory  !  Austria,  Russia,  England, 
And  that  tame  serpent,  that  poor  shadow,  France, 
Cry  peace,  and  that  means  death  when  monarchs 

speak. 
Ho,  there!  bring  torches,  sharpen  those  red  stakes! 
'i'hese  chains  are  liglit,  fitter  for  slaves  and  prisoners 
Than  Greeks.     Kill !  j)lunder  !  burn  !  let  none  re- 
main. 

SEMICHOnUS   I. 

Alas  for  Liberty ! 
If  numbers,  wealth,  or  unfultllling  years, 
Or  fate  can  quell  the  free ; 

Alas  for  \  irtue  !  when 
Torments,  or  contumely,  or  the  sneers 

Of  erring-judging  men 


Can  break  the  heart  where  it  abides. 
Alas !  if  Love,  whose    smile    makes  this  obscure 
world  splendid. 
Can  change,  with  its  false  times  and  tides, 
Like  hope  and  terror — 
Alas  for  Love! 
And  Truth,  who  wanderest  lone  and  unbcfriended. 
If  thou  canst  veil  thy  lie-consuming  min-or 
Before  the  dazzled  eye  of  Error.     . 
Alas  for  thee!     Image  of  the  Above. 

SEMICHOKUS    II. 

Repulse,  with  plumes  from  conquest  torn, 

Led  the  ten  thousand  from  the  limits  of  the  morn 

Through  many  a  hostile  Anarchy  ! 
At  length  they  wept  aloud  and  cried,    "  The  sea  ! 
the  sea !" 
Through  exile,  persecution,  and  despair, 

Rome  was,  and  young  Atlantis  shall  become 
The  wonder  or  the  terror  of  the  tomb 
Of  all  whose  step  wakes  power  lulled  in  her  savage 
lair: 
But  Greece  was  as  a  hermit  child. 
Whose  fairest  thoughts  and  hmbs  were  built 
To  woman's  growth,  by  dreams  so  mild 
She  knew  not  pain  nor  guilt ; 
And  now,  O  Victory,  blush  !  and  Empire,  tremble, 
When  ye  desert  the  free ! 
If  Greece  must  be 
A  wreck,  yet  shall  its  fragments  reassemble, 
And  build  themselves  again  impregnably 

In  a  diviner  clime. 
To  Amphionic  music,  on  some  Cape  sublime, 
Which  frowns  above  the  idle  foam  of  Time. 

SEMiCHonus  I. 

Let  the  tyrants  rule  the  desert  they  have  made ; 

Let  the  free  possess  the  paradise  they  claim  ; 
Be  the  fortune  of  our  fierce  oppressors  weighed 

With  our  ruin,  our  resistance,  and  our  name ! 

SEMICHOHUS    II, 

Our  dead  shall  be  the  seed  of  their  decay, 
Our  survivors  be  the  shadows  of  their  pride, 

Our  adversity  a  dream  to  pass  away — 
Their  dishonour  a  remembrance  to  abide  ! 

VOICE    AVITHOUT. 

Victory  !  Victory !  The  bought  Briton  sends 

The  keys  of  ocean  to  the  Islamite. 

Now  shall  the  blazon  of  the  cross  be  veiled, 

And  British  skill  directing  Othman  might, 

Tlunider-strike  rel)el  victory.     O  keep  holy 

This  jubilee  of  unrevenged  blood! 

Kill !  crush  !  despoil !    Let  not  a  Greek  escape ! 

SEMICHORUS    I. 

Darkness  has  dawned  in  the  East 

On  the  noon  of  time  : 
The  death-liirds  descend  to  their  feast, 

From  the  hungry  clime. 
Let  Freedom  and  Peace  flee  far 

To  a  sunnier  strand. 
And  follow  Love's  folding  star! 

To  the  Evening  land  ! 


=J 


NOTES    ON    HELLAS. 


201 


SKMICIlOnUS     II. 

The  young  moon  has  fed 
Her  cxliaustcil  horn 
With  the  sunset's  fire  : 
The  weak  day  is  ilaul. 

But  the  night  is  not  born; 
And,  hke loveUness  pantingwitli  wild  desire, 
While  it  trembles  with  fear  an<l  delight, 
Hesperus  Hies  from  awakening  night, 
And  pants  in  its  beauty  and  speed  with  light 
Fast-flashing,  soft,  and  bright. 
Thou  beacon  of  love!  thou  lamp  of  tlic  free  ! 

Guide  us  far,  fir  away, 
To  climes  where  now,  veiled  by  the  ardour  of  day. 
Tiiou  art  hiilden 
From  waves  on  which  weary  noon 
Faints  in  her  summer  swoon, 
Between  kingless  continents,  sinless  as  Eden, 
Around  mountains  and  islands  inviolably 
Prankt  on  the  sapphire  sca- 

SKMICHORUS    I. 

Through  the  sunset  of  hope. 
Like  the  shapes  of  a  dream, 
What  Paradise  islands  of  glory  gleam 

Beneath  Heaven's  cope. 
Their  shadovvs  more  clear  float  by — ■ 
The  sounds  of  their  oceans,  the  Ught  of  their  sky, 
The  music  and  fragrance  their  solitudes  breathe. 
Burst  like  morning  on  dreams,  or  like  Heaven  on 
death. 
Through  the  walls  of  our  prison  ; 
And  Greece,  which  was  dead,  is  arisen ! 

CHORUS. 

Tlie  world's  great  age  begins  anew, 

The  golden  years  return. 
The  earth  doth  like  a  snake  renew 
Her  winter  weeds  outworn : 
Heaven  smiles,  and  faiths  and  empires  gleam 
Like  wrecks  of  a  dissolving  dream. 


A  brighter  Hellas  rears  its  mountains 

From  waves  serener  far ; 
A  new  Pcneus  rolls  its  fountains 

Against  the  morning-star. 
Where  fairer  Tempes  bloom,  there  sleep 
Young  Cyclads  on  a  sunnier  deep. 

A  loftier  Argo  cleaves  the  main, 

Fraught  with  a  later  prize ; 
Anotiirr  Orpheus  sings  again. 

And  loves,  and  weeps,  and  dies. 
A  new  Ulysses  leaves  once  more 
Calypso  for  his  native  shore. 

0  write  no  more  the  tale  of  Troy, 
If  earth  Death's  scroll  must  be  ! 

Nor  mix  with  Laian  rage  the  joy 
Which  dawns  upon  the  free : 

Although  a  sul>tler  s])hinx  renew 

Riddles  of  death  Thebes  never  knew. 

Another  Athens  shall  arise, 

And  to  remoter  time 
Bequeath,  like  sunset  to  the  skies, 

The  splendour  of  its  prime ; 
And  leave,  if  nought  so  bright  maj'  live, 
All  earth  can  take  or  heaven  can  give. 

Saturn  and  Love  their  long  repose 
Shall  burst,  more  bright  and  good 

Than  all  who  fell,  than  One  who  rose, 
Than  many  unsubdued : 

Not  gold,  not  blood,  their  altar  dowers. 

But  votive  tears,  and  symbol  flowers. 

0  cease  !  must  hate  and  death  return  ! 
Cease!  must  men  kill  and  die"? 
Cease !  drain  not  to  its  dregs  the  urn 

Of  bitter  prophecy. 
The  world  is  weary  of  the  past, 
O  might  it  die  or  rest  at  last ! 


NOTES. 


P.  191,  col.  1,1.  4i. 

The  Quenchless  ashes  of  Milan. 

MtLAx  was  the  centre  of  the  resistance  of  the 
Lombard  league  against  the  Austrian  tyrant.  Fre- 
derick Barbarossa  burnt  the  city  to  the  ground,  but 
liberty  lived  in  its  ashes,  and  it  rose  like  an  exha- 
lation from  its  ruin. — ^See  Sismoxdi's  '^  Hisfoires 
des  Rdpufilir/iies  Ifalienne.s,'"  a  book  which  has 
done  much  towards  awakening  the  Italians-  to  an 
imitation  of  their  great  ancestors. 

P.  192,  col.  2, 1.  28. 

CHORUS. 

The  popular  notions  of  Christianity  are  repre- 
sented in  this  chorus  as  true  in  their  relation  to  the 
worship  they  superseded,  and  that  which  in  all 
probability  they  will  supersede,  without  consider- 
ing their  merits  in  a  relation  more  universal.  The 
first  stmza  contrasts  the  inmiortality  of  the  living 
20 


and  thinking  beings  which  inhabit  the  planets,  and, 
to  use  a  common  and  inadequate  phrase,  clothe 
themselves  in  matter,  with  the  transience  of  the 
noblest  manifestations  of  the  external  world. 

The  concluding  verses  indicate  a  progressive 
state  of  more  or  less  exalted  existence,  according 
to  the  degree  of  perfection  whicli  every  distinct  in- 
telligence may  have  attained.  Let  it  not  be  sup- 
posed that  I  mean  to  dogmatize  upon  a  subject  con- 
cerning which  all  men  ere  equally  ignorant,  or  that 
I  think  the  (Jordian  knot  of  the  origin  of  evil  can 
be  disentangled  by  that  or  by  any  similar  asser- 
tions. The  received  hypothesis  of  a  Being  re- 
sembling men  in  the  moral  attributes  of  his  nature, 
having  called  us  out  of  non-existence,  and  after 
inflicting  on  us  the  misery  of  the  commission  of 
error,  should  superadd  that  of  the  puni.shment  and 
the  privations  consequent  u])on  it,  still  would  re- 
main incxphcable  and  incredible.     That  there  is  a 


202 


NOTES    ONHELLAS. 


true  solution  of  the  riddle,  and  that  in  our  present 
state  the  solution  is  unattainable  by  us,  are  propo- 
sitions which  may  be  regarded  as-  equally  certain ; 
meanwiiilc,  as  it  is  the  province  of  the  jioet  to  at- 
tach himself  to  tliosc  ideas  which  exalt  and  ennoble 
humanity,  let  him  be  permitted  to  have  conjectured 
the  condition  of  that  futurity  towards  which  we 
are  all  impelled  by  an  inextinRuishaljJe  thirst  for  im- 
mortality. Until  better  arguments  can  be  produced 
than  sophisms  which  disgrace  the  cause,  this  desire 
itself  must  remain  the  strongest  and  the  only  pre- 
sumption that  eternity  is  the  inheritance  of  every 
thinking  being. 

P.  193,  col.  1,  1.  27. 
JVo  hoary  priests  nfler  that  Patriarch. 

The  Greek  Patriarch,  after  having  been  com- 
pelled to  fulminate  an  anathema  against  the  insur- 
gents, was  put  to  death  by  the  Turks. 

Fortunately  the  Greeks  have  been  taught  that 
they  cannot  buy  security  by  degradation,  and  the 
Turks,  though  equally  cruel,  are  less  cunning  than 
the  smooth-faced  tyrants  of  Europe. 

As  to  the  anathema,  his  Holiness  might  as  well 
have  thrown  his  mitre  at  Mount  Athos  for  any 
effect  that  it  produced.  The  chiefs  of  the  Greeks 
are  almost  all  men  of  comprehension  and  enlight- 
ened views  on  rehgion  and  politics. 

P.  196,  col.  1,1.  32. 
The  freeman  of  a  western  poet  chief. 
A  Greek  who  had  been  Lord  BjTon's  servant 
commands  the  insurgents  in  Attica.  This  Greek, 
Lord  Byron  informs  me,  though  a  poet  and  an  en- 
thusiastic patriot,  gave  him  rather  the  idea  of  a 
timid  and  unenterprising  person.  It  appears  that 
circumstances  make  men  what  they  are,  and  that 
we  all  contain  the  germ  of  a  degree  of  degradation 
or  greatness,  whose  connexion  with  onr  character 
is  determined  by  events. 

P.  196,  col.  2,  1.  18. 
The  Greeks  expect  a  Saviour  from  the  west. 
It  is  reported  that  this  Messiah  had  arrived  at  a 
seaport  near  Lacedemon  in  an  American  brig.  The 
association  of  names  and  ideas  is  irresistibly  ludi- 
crous, but  the  prevalence  of  such  a  rumour  strongly 
marks  the  state  of  popular  enthusiasm  in  Greece. 

P.  198,  col.  2, 1.  39. 

The  sound 
Jis  of  the  assault  of  an  imperial  city. 

For  the  vision  of  Mahmud  of  the  taking  of  Con- 
stantinople in  1415,  see  Gibbon's  Decline  and 
Fall  of  the  Rnman  Empire,  vol.  xii.  p.  223. 

The  manner  of  the  invocation  of  the  spirit  of 
Mahomet  the  Second  will  be  censured  as  over- 
drawn. I  could  easily  have  made  the  Jew  a  regular 
conjuror,  and  the  Phantom  an  ordinary  ghost.  I 
have  preferred  to  represent  the  Jew  as  disclaiming 
all   pretension,   or   even    belief,   in   supernatural 


agency,  and  as  tempting  Mahmud  to  that  state  of 
mind  in  which  ideas  may  be  supposed  to  assume 
the  force  of  sensation,  through  the  confusion  of 
thought,  with  the  objects  of  thought,  and  excess  of 
passion  animating  the  creations  of  the  imagination. 
It  is  H  sort  of  natural  magic,  susceptible  of  being 
exercised  in  a  degree  by  any  one  who  should  have 
made  himself  master  of  the  secret  associations  for 
another's  thoughts. 

P.  201,  col.  1,  1.  30. 
cnoRvs. 

The  final  chorus  is  indistiiict  and  ohscnre  as  the 
event  of  the  living  drama  whoso  arrival  it  foretells. 

Prophecies  of  wars,  and  rumours  of  wars,  &c. 
may  safely  be  made  by  poet  or  prophet  in  any 
age ;  but  to  anticipate,  however  darkly,  a  period  of 
regeneration  and  happiness,  is  a  more  hazardous 
exercise  of  the  faculty  which  bards  possess  or  feign. 
It  will  remind  the  reader,  "  magno  nee  proxinms 
intervallo"  of  Isaiah  and  Virgil,  whose  ardent  .spirits, 
overleaping  the  actual  reign  of  evil  which  we  en- 
dure and  bewail,  already  saw  the  possible  and  per- 
haps approaching,  state  of  society  in  which  the 
"  lion  shall  lie  down  with  the  lamb,"  and  "  omnis 
ferct  omnia  tellus."  Let  these  great  names  be 
my  authority  and  excuse. 

P.  201,  col.  2, 1.  25. 

Saturn  and  Love  their  long  repose. 

Saturn  and  Love  were  among  the  deities  of  a 
real  or  imaginary  state  of  innocence  and  happiness. 
^// those  ivho  fell,  or  the  Gods  of  Greece,  Asia, 
and  Egypt;  ihe  One,  ivho  rose, or  Jesus  Christ,  at 
whose  appearance  the  idols  of  the  Pagan  world 
were  amerced  of  their  worship;  and  tfie  muny  un- 
subdued or  the  monstrous  objects  of  the  idolatry 
of  China,  India,  and  the  Antarctic  islands,  and  the 
native  tribes  of  America,  certainly  have  reigned 
over  the  understandings  of  men  in  conjunction  or 
in  succession,  during  periods  in  which  all  we  know 
of  evil  has  been  in  a  state  of  portentous,  and,  until 
the  revival  of  learning  and  the  arts,  perpetually  in- 
creasing, activity.  The  Grecian  Gods  seem  indeed 
to  have  been  personally  more  innocent,  although 
it  cannot  be  said  that,  as  far  as  temperance  and 
chastity  are  concerned,  they  gave  so  edifying  an 
example  as  their  successor.  The  sublime  human 
character  of  Jesus  Christ  was  deformed  by  an  im- 
puted identification  with  a  power,  who  tempted, 
betrayed,  and  puni.shed  the  innocent  beings  who 
were  called  into  existence  by  his  sole  will ;  and 
for  the  period  of  a  thousand  years,  the  spirit  of  this 
most  just,  wise,  and  benevolent  of  men,  has  been 
propitiated  with  myriads  of  hecatombs  of  those 
who  approached  the  nearest  to  his  innocence  and 
wisdom,  sacrificed  under  every  aggravation  of 
atrocity  and  variety  of  torture.  The  horrors  of 
the  Mexican,  the  Peruvian,  and  the  Indian  super- 
stitions are  well  known. 


EDITOR'S    NOTE    ON    HELLAS. 


203 


NOTE  ON  HELLAS. 


BY  THE  EDITOR. 


Tke  south  of  Europe  was  in  a  state  of  great 
political  excitement  at  the  beginning  of  the  year 
1821.  The  Spanish  Revolution  had  been  a  signal 
to  Italy — secret  societies  were  formed — and  when 
Naples  rose  to  declare  the  Constitution,  the  call 
was  responded  to  from  Brundusium  to  the  foot  of 
the  Alps.  To  crush  these  attempts  to  obtain  liberty, 
early  in  1821,  the  Austrians  poured  their  annies 
into  the  peninsula  :  at  first  their  coming  rather 
seemed  to  add  energy  and  resolution  to  a  people 
long  enslaved.  The  Piedmontese  asserted  their 
freedom  ;  Genoa  threw  off  the  yoke  of  the  King 
of  Sardinia ;  and,  as  if  in  playful  imitation,  the 
people  of  the  little  state  of  Massa  and  Carrara 
gave  the  conge  to  their  sovereign  and  set  up  a 
repubhc. 

Tuscany  alone  was  perfectly  tranquil.  It  was 
said,  that  the  Austrian  minister  presented  a  Hst 
of  sixty  Carbonari  to  the  grand-duke,  urging  their 
imprisonment ;  and  the  grand-duke  replied,  "  I 
do  not  know  whether  these  sixty  men  are  Car- 
bonari, but  I  know  if  I  imprison  them,  I  shall 
directly  have  sixty  thousand  start  up."  But 
though  the  Tuscans  had  no  desire  to  disturb  the 
paternal  government,  beneath  whose  shelter  they 
.slumbered,  they  regarded  the  progress  of  the 
vaiious  Italian  revolutions  with  intense  interest 
and  hatred  for  the  Austrian  was  warm  in  every 
bosom.  But  they  had  slender  hopes  ;  they  knew 
that  the  Neapolitans  would  offer  no  fit  resistance 
to  the  regular  Gennan  troops,  and  that  the  over- 
throw of  the  Constitution  in  Naples  would  act  as 
a  decisive  blow  against  all  struggles  for  hberty  in 
Italy. 

We  have  seen  the  rise  and  progress  of  reform. 
But  the  Holy  Alliance  was  alive  and  active  in 
those  days,  and  few  could  dream  of  the  peaceful 
triumph  of  liberty.  It  seemed  then  that  the  anncd 
assertion  of  freedom  in  the  south  of  Europe  was 
the  only  hope  of  the  liberals,  as,  if  it  prevailed,  the 
nations  of  the  north  would  imitate  the  example. 
Haj>pily  the  reverse  has  proved  the  fact.  The 
countries  accustomed  to  the  exercise  of  the  pri- 
vileges of  freemen,  to  a  limited  extent,  have 
extended,  and  are  extending  these  hmits.  Freedom 
and  knowledge  have  now  a  chance  of  proceeding 
hand  in  hand  ;   and  if  it  continue  thus,  we   may 


hope  for  the  durability  of  both.  Then,  as  I  have 
said,  in  1821,  Shelley,  as  well  as  every  other  lover 
of  liberty,  looked  upon  the  strtggles  in  Spain  and 
Italy  as  decisive  of  the  destinies  of  the  world,  pro- 
bably for  centuries  to  come.  The  interest  he  took 
in  the  progress  of  afliiirs  was  intense.  When 
Genoa  declared  itself  free,  his  hopes  were  at  their 
highest.  Day  after  day,  he  read  the  bulletins  of 
the  Austrian  army,  and  sought  eagerly  to  gather 
tokens  of  its  defeat.  He  heard  of  the  revolt  of 
Genoa  with  emotions  of  transport.  His  whole 
heart  and  soul  were  in  the  triumph  of  their  cause. 
We  were  living  at  Pisa  at  that  time  ;  and  several 
well-informed  Italians,  at  the  head  of  whom  we 
may  place  the  celebrated  Vacca,  were  accustomed 
to  seek  for  sympathy  in  their  ho{)es  from  Shelley  : 
they  did  not  find  such  for  the  despair  they  too 
generally  experienced^  founded  on  contempt  for 
their  southern  countrymen. 

While  the  fate  of  the  progress  of  the  Austrian 
armies  then  invading  I^aples  was  yet  in  suspense, 
the  news  of  another  revolution  filled  him  with 
exultation.  We  had  formed  the  acquaintance  at 
Pisa  of  several  Constantinopolitan  Greeks,  of  the 
family  of  Prince  Caradja,  formerly  Hospodar  of 
Wallachia,  who  hearing  that  the  bowstring,  the 
accustomed  finale  of  his  viccroyalty,  was  on  the 
road  to  him,  escaped  with  his  treasures,  and  took 
up  his  abode  in  Tuscany.  Among  these  was  the 
gentleman  to  whom  the  drama  of  Hellas  is  dedi- 
cated. Prince  Mavrocordato  was  warmed  by  those 
aspirations  for  the  independence  of  his  country, 
which  filled  the  hearts  of  many  of  his  countrymen. 
He  often  intimated  the  possibility  of  an  insurrection 
in  Greece  ;  but  we  had  no  idea  of  its  being  so  near 
at  hand,  when,  on  the  1st  of  Ajjril,  1821,  he  called 
on  Shelley ;  bringing  the  proclamation  of  his 
cousin  Prince  Ipsilanti,  and,  radiant  with  exulta- 
tion and  deliglit,  declared  that  henceforth  Greece 
would  be  free. 

Shelley  had  hymned  the  dawn  of  liberty  in  Spain 
and  Naples,  in  two  odes,  dictated  by  the  warmest 
enthusiasm  ; — he  felt  himself  naturally  impelled 
to  decorate  with  poetry  the  uprise  of  the  descend- 
ants of  that  people,  whose  works  he  regarded  with 
deep  admiration  ;  and  to  adopt  the  vaticinatory 
character  in  prophesying  their  success.     "  Hellas" 


104 


EDITOR'S    NOTE    ON    HELLAS. 


was  written  in  a  moment  of  enthusiasm.  It  is 
curious  to  remark  how  well  he  overcomes  the 
(lilHculty  of  forming  a  drama  out  of  such  scant 
materials.  His  prophecies,  indeed,  came  true  in 
their  general,  not  their  particular  purport.  He  did 
•not  foresee  the  death  of  Lord  Londonderry,  which 
was  to  be  the  epoch  of  a  change  in  English  politics, 
particularly  as  regarded  foreign  aflairs;  nor  that 
the  navy  of  his  country  would  fight  for  instead  of 
against  the  Greeks  ;  and  by  the  battle  of  Navarino 
secure  their  enfranchisement  from  the  Turks. 
Almost  against  reason,  as  it  appeared  to  him,  he 
•resolved  to  believe  that  Greece  would  prove 
triumphant ;  and  in  this  spirit,  auguring  ultimate 
good,  yet  grienng  over  the  vicissitudes  to  be  en- 
dured in  the  interval,  he  composed  his  drama. 

The  chronological  order  to  be  observed  in  the 
arrangement  of  the  remaining  poems,  is  interrupted 
here,  that  his  dramas  may  follow  each  other  con- 
secutively. "Hellas"  was  among  the  last  of  his 
compositions,  and  is  among'  the  most  beautiful. 
The  chorasses  are  singularly  imaginative,  and  me- 
lodious  in  their  versification.     There    are  some 


stanzas  that  beautifully  exemplify  Shelley's  pecu- 
liar style  ;  as,  for  instance,  the  assertion  of  the  in- 
tellectual empire  which  must  be  for  ever  the  in- 
heritance of  the  country  of  Homer,  Sophocles,  and 
Plato : 

But  Greece  and  her  foundations  are 

Built  lielow  the  tide  of  war; 

Based  on  the  crystalline  sea 

Of  thought  and  its  eternity. 

And  again,  that  philosophical  truth,  felicitously 
imaged  forth — 

Revenge  and  wrong  bring  forth  their  kind, 
Tlie  foul  cubs  like  their  parents  are  ; 
Their  den  is  in  the  guilty  mind, 
And  conscience  feeds  them  with  despair. 

The  conclusion  of  the  last  chorus  is  among  the 
most  beautiful  of  his  lyrics ;  the  imagery  is  dis- 
tinct and  majestic ;  the  prophecy,  such  as  poets 
love  to  dwell  upon,  the  regeneration  of  mankind — 
and  that  regeneration  reflecting  back  splendour  on 
the  foregone  time,  from  which  it  inherits  so  much 
of  intellectual  wealth,  and  memory  of  past  virtuous 
deeds,  as  must  render  the  possession  of  hajjpiness 
and  peace  of  tenfold  value. 


4 


END  OF  HELLAS. 


(EDIPUS  TYRANNUS; 

OR, 

SWELLFOOT    THE    TYRANT. 

IN  TWO  ACTS. 
TRANSLATED    FROM    THE    ORIGINAL    DORIC. 


Choose  Reform  or  Civil  War, 

When  through  thy  streets,  instead  of  hare  with  dogs, 
A  Consort-Queen  shall  hunt  a  King  with  hogs, 
Riding  on  the  Ionian  Minotaur, 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


This  Tragedy  is  one  of  a  triad,  or  system  of 
three  Plays,  (an  arrangement  according  to  which 
the  Greeks  were  accustomed  to  connect  their  Dra- 
matic representations,)  elucidating  the  wonderful 
and  appalling  fortunes  of  the  Swellfoot  dynasty. 
It  was  evidently  written  by  some  learned  Theban, 
and  from  its  characteristic  dulness,  apparently  be- 
fore the  duties  on  the  importation  of  Attic  salt  had 
been  repealed  by  the  Bostarchs.  The  tenderness 
with  wliich  he  beats  the  Pigs  proves  him  to  have 
been  a  sus  Boeotiae ,-  possibly  Eplcuri  de  grege 
porous  ;  for,  as  the  poet  observes, 


"A  fellow  feeling  makes  us  wnnd'rons  kind."' 
No  liberty  has  been  taken  with  the  translation 
of  this  remarkable  piece  of  antiquity,  except  the 
suppressing  a  seditious  and  blasphemous  chorus 
of  the  Pigs  and  Bulls  at  the  last  act.  The  word 
Hoydipouse,  (or  more  properly  CEdipus,)  has  been 
rendered  literally  Swellfoot,  without  its  having 
been  conceived  necessary  to  determine  whether  a 
swelling  of  the  hind  or  the  fore  feet  of  the  Swinish 
Monarch  is  particularly  indicated. 

Should  the  remaining  portions  of  this  Tragedy 
be  found,  entitled,  "  Swellfoof  in  Angaria,"  and 
"  Churiter  the  Translator  might  be  tempted  to 
give  them  to  the  reading  Public. 


DRAMATIS  PERSON,^. 


TriiAXT  SwELtFooT,  King  of  Tltebes. 
loNA  Tauhixa,  his  Queen. 
Mammon,  Arch-Priest  of  Famine. 

PURGAXAX,  -s 

Df  Wizards,  Ministers  nf 

T  \  SwELLFOOT. 

Laoctoxos,      } 


The  Gadflt.  ■ 
The  Leech. 
The  Rat. 
The  MiNOTAun. 

Moses,  the  Sow-gelder. 

SoLOMox,  the  Porkman. 

Zkphaxiah,  Pig-Butcher. 
Chorus  of  the  Swinish  Multitude. 
Guards,  Attendants,  Priests,  ^c.  ^c. 


ScEKE.— Thebes. 


206 


CEDIPUS    TYRANNUS; 


ACT    I. 


SCENE  I. 

A  marrnifirent  Temple,  built  of  tkiffli-bnncs  and  drath^s- 
heaJs,  and  tiled  with  scalps.  Over  the  Altar  the  statue 
of  Faminej  veiled  ;  a  nuinher  of  bonrf,  sows,  and  suck- 
inir-pigs,  croicned  with  thistle,  shamrurk,  and  oak,  sit- 
tinrr  on  the  steps,  and  clinging  round  the  Jiltar  of  the 
Temple, 

Enter  S  wellfoot,  in.  his  royal  robes,  without  perceiving 
the  Pigs. 

SWELLFOOT. 

Thoc  supreme  GoiUess !  hy  whose  power  divine 
These  graceful  hmbs  are  clothed  in  proud  array 

[//e  contemplates  himself  with  satisfaction. 
Of  gold  and  purple,  a'ud  this  kingly  paunch 
Swells  like  a  sail  before  a  favouring  breeze, 
And  these  most  sacred  nether  promontories 
Lie  satisfied  with  laj'ers  of  fat ;  and  these 
Bncotian  cheeks,  like  Egypt's  pyramid, 
(Nor  with  less  toil  were  their  foundations  laid,*) 
Sustain  the  cone  of  my  untroubled  brain, 
That  point,  the  emblem  of  a  pointless  nothing  ! 
Thou  to  whom  Kings  and  laurelled  Emperors, 
Radical-butchers,  Papcr-money-millers, 
Bishops  and  deacons,  and  the  entire  army 
Of  those  fat  martyrs  to  the  persecution 
Of  stifling  turtle-soup,  and  brandy-devils, 
Offer  their  secret  vows!  Thou  plenteous  Ceres 
Of  their  Eleusis,  hail ! 

THE   SWINE. 

Eigh!  eigh!  eigh!  eigh! 

SWELLFOOT. 

Ha  !  what  are  ye, 
Who,  crowned  with  leaves  devoted  to  the  Furies, 
Cling  round  this  sacred  shrine  ] 

SWINE. 

Aigh !  aigh  !  aigh  ! 

SWELLFOOT. 

What !  ye  that  are 
The  very  beasts  that  offered  at  her  altar 
With  blood  and   groans,  salt-cake,  and  fat,  and 

inwards, 
Ever  propitiate  her  reluctant  will 
Wlicn  taxes  are  withheld  ? 

SWINE. 

Ugh!  ugh!  ugh! 

SWF.LLFOOT. 

What !  ye  who  grub 
With  filthy  snouts  my  red  potatoes  up 
In  Allan's  rushy  bogi      Who  cat  the  oats 
Up,  from  my  cavalry  in  the  Hebrides  1 
Who  swill  the  hog-wash  soup  my  cooks  digest 
From  bones,  and  rag-;,  auil  scraps  of  slioe-lcather. 
Which  should  be  given  to  cleaner  Pigs  than  you  1 

*  See  Universal  History  for  an  account  of  the  num- 
ber of  people  who  died,  and  the  immense  consumption 
of  garlic  by  the  wretched  Ej^yptians,  who  made  a  sepul- 
chre for  the  name  as  well  as  llu;  bodies  of  their  tyrants. 


THE    SWINE. 


8EMI0HORUS  I. 

The  same,  alas  !  the  .same  ; 

Though  only  now  the  name 

Of  pig  remains  to  me. 

SEMICHOKl'S  11. 

If  'twere  your  kingly  will 
Us  wretched  swine  to  kill, 

What  should  we  yield  to  thee  ] 

SWELLFOOT. 

Why   skin   and  bones,   and   some   few  hairs  for 
mortar. 

CHORUS    OF    SWINE. 

I  have  heard  your  Laureate  sing. 

That  pity  was  a  royal  thing ; 

Under  your  mighty  ancestors,  we  pigs 

Were  bless'd  as  nightingales  on  myrtle  sprigs, 

Or  grasshoppers  that  live  on  noonday  dew. 

And  sung,  old  annals  tell,  as  sweetly  too: 

But  now  our  sties  are  fallen  in,  we  catch 

The  murrain  and  the  mange,  the  scab  and  itch  ; 
Sometimes  your  royal  dogs  tear  down  our  thatch. 

And  then  we  seek  the  shelter  of  a  ditch ; 
Hog-wash  or  grains,  or  ruta-baga,  none 
Has  yet  been  ours  since  your  reign  begun. 

FIUST    sow. 

My  pigs,  'tis  in  vain  to  tug ! 

SECOND    sow. 

I  could  almost  eat  my  litter ! 

FIRST    PIG. 

I  suck,  but  no  milk  will  come  from  the  dug. 

SECOND    PIG. 

Our  skin  and  our  bones  would  be  bitter. 

THE    BOARS. 

We  fight  for  this  rag  of  greasy  rug. 
Though  a  trough  of  wash  would  be  fitter. 

SEMICHOHUfi. 

Happier  swine  were  they  than  we. 
Drowned  in  the  Gadarean  sea — 
I  wish  that  pity  would  drive  out  the  devils 
Which  in  your  royal  bosom  hold  their  revels, 
And  sirdv  us  in  the  waves  of  your  comjjassion ! 
Alas!  the  Pigs  are  an  unhappy  nation! 
Now  if  your  Majesty  would  have  our  bristles 

To  bind  your  mortar  with,  or  fill  our  colons 
With  rich  blood,  or  make  brawn  out  of  our  gristles. 

In  policy — ask  else  your  royal  Solons — 
You  ought  to  give  us  hog-wash  and  clean  straw, 
And  sties  well  thatched  ;  besides,  it  is  the  law ! 

SWELLFOOT. 

This  is  sedition,  and  rank  blasphemy ! 
Ho !  there,  my  guards ! 

Enter  a  Gt'AUD. 

GUARD. 

Your  sacred  Majesjy  1 


OR,    SWELLFOOT    THE    TYRANT. 


207 


SWELLFOOT. 

Call  in  the  Jews,  Solomon  the  court  y)orkman, 
Moses  the   sow-gclder,  and   Zcphaniah  the   hog- 
buti-her. 

r.r.vRD. 
They  are  in  waiting,  sire. 

EKter  Solomon,  Moses,  and  Zephaniah. 

SWELLFOOT. 

Out  with  your  knife,  old  Moses,  and  spay  those  sows, 
[The  Pigs  run  about  in  conslcrnalion. 
That  load  the  earth  with  pigs ;  cut  close  and  deep. 
Moral  restraint  I  see  has  no  eflect. 
Nor  prostitution,  nor  our  own  example, 
Starvation,  typhus-fever,  war,  nor  prison — - 
Tills  was  the  art  which  the  arch-priest  of  Famine 
Hinted  at  in  his  charge  to  the  Theban  clergy — ■ 
Cut  close  and  deep,  good  Moses. 

MOSES. 

Let  your  Majesty 
Keep  the  boars  quiet,  else — ■ 

SWELLFOOT. 

Zcphaniah,  cut 
That  fat  hog's  throat,  the  brute  seems  overfed; 
Seditious  hunks  !  to  whine  for  want  of  grams. 

ZEPHANIAH. 

Your  sacred  Majesty,  he  has  the  dropsy ; — 
We  should  find  pints  of  hydatids  in's  liver, 
He  has  not  half  an  inch  of  wholesome  fat 
Upon  Ms  carious  ribs — • 

SWELLFOOT. 

'Tis  all  the  same, 
He'll  serve  instead  of  riot-money,  when 
Our  murmuring  troops  bivouac  in  Thebes' streets ; 
And  January  winds,  after  a  day 
Of  butchering,  will  make  them  relish  carrion. 
Now,  Solomon,  I'll  sell  you  in  a  lump 
The  whole  kit  of  them. 

SOLOMOX. 

Why,  your  Majesty, 
I  could  not  give 

SWELLFOOT. 

Kill  them  out  of  the  way, 
That  shall  be  price  enough,  and  let  me  hear 
Their  everlasting  grunts  and  whines  no  more ! 

[Exeunt,  driving  in  the  Swine. 

Enter  Mammon, tfte  Arch  Priest;  and  Purganax,  Chief 
of  the  Council  of  Wizards. 

PUHGASAX. 

The  future  looks  as  black  as  death,  a  cloud, 
Dark  as  the  frown  of  Hell,  hangs  over  it — 
The  troops  grow  mutinous — the  revenue  fails — 
There's  something  rotten  in  us — for  the  level 
Of  the  State  slopes,  its  very  bases  topple ; 
The  boldest  turn  their  backs  upon  themselves ! 

MAM?rO>'. 

Why,  what's  the  matter,  my  dear  fellow,  now  1 
Do  the  troops  mutiny  ? — decimate  some  regiments ; 
Does  money  fail  ? — come  to  my  mint — coin  paper. 
Till  gold  be  at  a  discount,  and,  ashamed 
To  show  his  bilious  face,  go  purge  himself, 
In  emulation  of  her  vestal  whiteness. 


PUIIOAXAX. 

Oh,  would  that  this  werv  all !    The  oracle ! 

MAMMOX. 

Why  it  was  I  who  spoke  that  oracle. 
And  whether  I  was  dead  drunk  or  inspired, 
I  cannot  well  rrincmbcr;  nor,  in  truth, 
The  oracle  itself! 

punoAXAX. 

The  words  went  thus : — 
"  Ba'Otia,  choose  reform  or  civil  war  ! 
When  through  the  streets,  instead  of  hare  with  dogs, 
A  Consort  Queen  siiall  hunt  a  King  with  hogs, 
Riding  on  the  Ionian  Minotaur." 

MAMMON. 

Now  if  the  oracle  had  ne'er  foretold 
This  .sad  alternative,  it  must  arrive. 
Or  not,  and  so  it  must  now  that  it  has ; 
And  whether  I  was  urged  by  grace  divine, 
Or  liCsbian  liquor  to  declare  these  words. 
Which  must,  as  all  words  must,  be  false  or  true ; 
It  matters  not;  for  the  same  power  ma<le  all, 
Oracle,  wine,  and  me  and  you — or  none — 
'Tis  the  same  thing.     If  you  knew  as  much 
Of  oracles  as  I  do 

puhganax. 

You  arch-priests 
Believe  in  nothing:  if  you  were  to  dream 
Of  a  particular  number  in  the  lottery, 
You  would  not  buy  the  ticket ! 

MAMMOX. 

Yet  our  tickets 
Are  seldom  blanks.  But  what  steps  have  you  taken  1 
For  prophecies,  when  once  they  get  abroad, 
Like  liars  who  tell  the  truth  to  sei-ve  their  ends, 
Or  hypocrites,  who,  from  assuming  virtue, 
Do  the  same  actions  that  the  virtuous  do. 
Contrive  their  fulfilment.     This  lona — 
Well — ^3'ou  know  what  the  chaste  Pasiphae  did, 
Wife  to  that  most  religious  King  of  Crete, 
And  still  how  popular  the  tale  is  here ; 
And  these  dull  swine  of  Thebes  boast  their  descent 
From  the  free  Minotaur.     You  know  they  still 
Call  themselves  bulls,  though  thus  degenerate ; 
And  every  thing  relating  to  a  bull 
Is  popular  and  respectable  in  Thebes : 
Their  arms  are  seven  hulls  in  a  field  gules. 
They  think  their  strength  consists  in  eating  beef, — 
Now  there  were  danger  in  the  precedent 
If  Queen  lona 

PUUGAXAX. 

I  have  taken  good  care 
That  shall  not  be.     I  struck  the  crust  o'  the  earth 
With  this  enchanted  rod,  and  hell  lay  bare! 
And  from  a  cavern  full  of  ugly  shapes, 
I  chose  a  Leech,  a  Gadfly,  and  a  Rat. 
The  gadfly  was  the  same  which  J\hio  sent 
To  agitate  lo,*  and  which  Ezechielf  mentions 
That  the  Lord  whistled  for  out  of  the  mountains 

*  The  Prnmpllieiis  Bound  of  ^schyliis. 
+  And  the  Lord  whi.stled  for  the  gadfly  out  ^Ethiopia, 
and  for  the  bee  of  Egypt,  &,c.— Ezechiel. 


208 


(EDIPUS    TYRANNUS; 


Of  utmoi5t  Ethiopia,  to  torment 
Mesopotamian  Babylon.     The  beast 
Has  a  loud  trumpet  like  the  Scarabee ; 
His  crooked  tail  is  barbed  with  many  stings, 
Each  able  to  make  a  thousand  wounds,  and  each 
Immedicable ;  from  his  convex  eyes 
He  sees  fair  things  in  many  hideous  shapes, 
And  trumpets  all  his  falsehood  to  the  world. 
Like  other  beetles  he  is  fed  on  dung — 
He  has  eleven  feet  with  which  he  crawls, 
Trailing  a  blistering  slime ;  and  this  foul  beast 
Has  tracked  lona  from  the  Thcban  hmits, 
From  isle  to  isle,  from  city  unto  city. 
Urging  her  flight  from  the  far  Chersonese 
To  fabulous  Solyma,  and  the  j^^tnean  Isle, 
Ortygia,  Mclits,  and  Calypso's  Kock, 
And  the  swart  tribes  of  Garamant  and  Fez, 
^-Eolia  and  Elysium,  and  thy  shores, 
Parthenope,  which  now,  alas  !  are  free  ! 
And  through  the  fortunate  Satunnian  land. 
Into  the  darkness  of  the  West. 

MAMMOX. 

But  if 
This  Gadfly  should  drive  lona  hither  ? 

PURGANAX. 

Gods!  what  an  if.'  But  there  is  my  gray  Rat  ! 
So  thin  with  want,  he  can  crawl  in  and  out 
Of  any  narrow  chink  and  filthy  hole. 
And  he  shall  creep  into  her  dressing-room, 
And— 

MAMMON'. 

My  dear  friend,  where  are  your  wits  1   as  if 
She  does  not  always  toast  a  bit  of  cheese. 
And  bait  the  trap  ]   and  rats,  when  lean  enough 
To  crawl  through  such  chinks 

PURGAXAX. 

But  my  Lur.ctr — a  leech 
Fit  to  suck  blood,  with  lubricous  round  rings, 
Capaciously  expatiativc,  which  make 
His  little  body  like  a  red  balloon. 
As  full  of  blood  as  that  of  hydrogen, 
Sucked  from  men's  hearts ;  insatiably  he  sucks 
And   clings  and  pulls — a  horse-leech,  whose  deep 

maw 
The  plethoric  King  Swellfoot  could  not  fill. 
And  who,  till  full,  will  cling  for  ever. 


This 


For  Queen  lona  miglit  sufliice,  and  less ; 
But  'tis  the  swinish  multitude  I  fear, 
And  in  that  fear  I  have 


PCRGAXAX. 


Done  what  ] 


MAMMON. 

Disinherited 
My  eldest  son  Chrysaor,  because  he 
Attended  public  meetings,  and  would  always 
Stand  prating  there  of  coiinnerce,  public  faith, 
Economy,  and  iniadnltcrate  coin, 
And  other  toj)ics,  ultra-radical; 
And  have   entailed  my  estate,  called   the   Fool's 
Paradise, 


And  funds,  in  fairy-money,  bonds,  and  bills. 
Upon  my  accomplished  daughter  Banknotina, 
And  married  her  to  the  Gallows.* 


PURGANAX. 


A  good  match  1 


•    MAMMOX. 

A  high  connexion,  Purganax.     The  bridegroom 

Is  of  a  very  ancient  family 

Of  Hounslow  Heath,  Tybum,  and  the  New  Drop, 

And  has  great  influence  in  both  Houses — Oh  ! 

He  makes  the  fondest  husband  ;  nay  too  fond : — 

New-married  people  should  not  kiss  in  pubhc ; — 

But  the  poor  souls  love  one  another  so ! 

And  then  my  little  grandchildren,  the  Gibbets, 

Promising  children  as  you  ever  saw, — 

The  young  playing  at  hanging,  the  elder  learning 

How  to  hold  radicals.     They  are  well  taught  too. 

For  every  Gibbet  says  its  catechism, 

And  reads  a  select  chapter  in  the  Bible 

Before  he  goes  to  play. 

[A  most  tremendous  humming  is  heard. 

PURGANAX. 

Ha !  what  do  I  hear ! 
Enter  Gadfly. 

MAMMOX. 

Your  Gadfly,  as  it  seems,  is  tired  of  gadding. 

GADFLY. 

Hum  !  hum !  hum  ! 
From  the  lakes  of  the  Alps,  and  the  cold  gray  scalps 

Of  the  mountains,  I  come ! 

Hum  !  hum  !  hum  ! 
From  Morocco  and  Fez,  and  the  high  palaces 

Of  golden  Byzantium ; 
From  the  temples  divine  of  old  Palestine, 

From  Athens  and  Rome, 

With  a  ha  !  and  a  hum ! 

I  come  !  I  come ! 

All  inn-doors  and  windows 

Were  open  to  me  ! 
I  saw  all  that  sin  does. 
Which  lamps  hardly  see 
That  burn  in  the  night  by  the  curtained  bed, — 
The  impudent  lamps  !  for  they  blushed  not  red. 
Dinging  and  singing. 
From  slumber  I  rung  her. 
Loud  as  the  clank  of  an  ironmonger  ! 
Hum  !  hum !  hum  ! 

Far,  fiir,  far. 
With  the  trump  of  my  lips,  and  the  sting  at  my  hips, 
I  drove  her — afar ! 
Far,  far,  far. 
From  city  to  city,  abandoned  of  pity, 

A  ship  without  ncedle'or  star ; — 
Homeless  she  past,  like  a  cloud  on  the  blast, 
Seeking  peace,  finding  war ; — ■ 
She  is  here  in  her  car. 
From  afar,  and  afar ; — ■ 
Hum !  hum ! 

*  "If  one  should  marry  a  gallows,  and  beget  young 
gibbets,  I  never  saw  one  so  prone." — Cymbeline. 


OR,    SWELLFOOT    THE    TYRANT. 


209 


I  have  stung  her  and  wrung  her ! 

The  venom  is  workinpr ; — 
And  it' you  had  hunt;  her 
With  eantiiig  and  quirking, 
She  eould  not  he  deader  than  she  will  he  soon ; — 
I  have  driven  her  close  to  you,  under  the  moon. 

Aight  and  day,  hum  !  hum  !  ha  ! 
I  have  hummed  lier  and  drummed  her 
From  place  to  place,  till  at  last  I  have  dumhed  her. 
Hum  !  hum  !  hum  ! 


I  will  suck 

Blood  or  nmck ! 
The  disease  of  the  state  is  a  plethory, 
Who  so  tit  to  reduce  it  as  I  ! 

KAT. 

I'll  sHly  seize  and 
Let  Wood  from  her  weasand, — 
Creeping  through  crevice,  and  chink  and  cranny, 
With  my  snaky  tail,  and  my  sides  so  scranny. 

PURGANAX. 

Aroint  ye  !  thou  unprofitable  worm  ! 

[Tn  the  Leech. 
And  thou,  dull  heetle,  get  thee  back  to  hell ! 

[To  the  Gadfly. 
And  sting  the  ghosts  of  Babylonian  kings, 
And  the  ox-headed  lo 

swijfE   (^icithin.) 
Ugh,  ugh,  ugh! 
Hail !  lona  the  divine. 
We  will  be  no  longer  swine, 
But  bulls  with  horns  and  dewlaps. 

HAT. 

For, 
You  know,  my  lord,  the  Minotaur 

ptJRGAXAX  {fiercely.) 
Be  silent !  get  to  hell ! '  or  I  will  call 
The  cat  out  of  the  kitchen.   Well,  Lord  Mammon, 
This  is  a  pretty  busuiess  !  [Exit  the  Rat. 

MAMMOX. 

I  will  go 
And  spell  some  scheme  to  make  it  ugly  then. 
Enter  Swellfoot. 

SWELLFOOT. 

She  is  returned  !  Taurina  is  in  Thebes 
When  Swellfoot  wishes  tliat  she  were  in  hell ! 
Oh,  Hymen  !  clothed  in  yellow  jealousy. 
And  waving  o'er  the  couch  of  wedded  kings 
The  torch  of  Discord  with  its  fiery  hair! 
This  is  thy  work,  thou  patron  saint  of  queens  ! 
Swellfoot  is  wived  !   though  parted  by  the  sea, 
The  very  name  of  wife  had  conjugal  rights ; 
Her  cursed  image  ate,  draidi,  slept  with  me. 
And  in  the  arms  of  Adiposa  oft 

Her  memory  has  received  a  husband's 

[A  loud  tumult,  and  cries  of  "  lona  for  ever  : — No 
Swellfoot  1" 

SWELLFOOT. 

Hark ! 
How  the  swine  cry  lona  Taurina ! 
27 


A  jury  of  the  pigs. 


I  suffer  the  real  presence :  Purganax, 
Off  with  her  head  ! 

I'UIIGANAX. 

But  I  must  first  empannej 

SWELLFOOT. 

Pack  them  then. 

PURGANAX. 

Or  fattening  some  few  in  two  separate  sties. 
And  giving  them  clean  straw,  tying  some  bits 
Of  ribbon  round  their  legs — giving  their  sows 
Some  tawdry  lace,  and  bits  of  lustre  glass, 
And  their  young  boars  white  and  red  rags,  and  tails 
Of  cows,  and  jay  feathers,  aud  sticking  cauliflowers 
Between  the  ears  of  the  old  ones ;  and  when 
They  are  persuaded,  that  by  the  inherent  virtue 
Of  these  things,  they  are  all  imperial  pigs. 
Good  Lord  !  they'd  rip  each  other's  bellies  up, 
Not  to  say  help  us  in  destroying  her. 

SWELLFOOT. 

This  plan  might  he   tried   too ; — where's  General 
Laoctonos  1 

Enter  Laoctonos  and  Dakrv. 
It  is  my  royal  pleasure 

That  you.  Lord  General,  bring  the  head  and  body, 
If  separate  it  would  please  me  better,  hither 
Of  Queen  lona. 

LAOCTONOS. 

That  pleasure  I  well  knew. 
And  made  a  charge  with  those  battalions  bold. 
Called,  from  their  dress  and  grin,  the  royal  apes, 
Upon  the  swine,  who  in  a  hollow  square 
Enclosed  her,  and  received  the  first  attack 
Like  so  many  rhinoceroses,  and  then 
Retreating  in  good  order,  with  bare  tusks 
And  wrinkled  snouts  presented  to  the  foe, 
Bore  her  in  triumph  to  the  public  sty. 
W^hat  is  still  worse,  some  sows  upon  the  ground 
Have  given  the  ape-guards  apples,  nuts,  and  gin, 
And  they  all  whisk  their  tails  aloft,  and  cr}% 
"Long  hve  lona!  down  with  Swellfoot !" 


PURGANAX. 


Hark ! 


THE  SWINE   {ivifhouL) 
Long  live  lona  !  down  with  Swellfoot ! 


I 


Went  to  the  garret  of  the  swineherd's  tower, 
Wliich  overlooks  the  sty,  and  made  a  long 
Harangue   (all  words)  to  the  a.s.scmbled  swine, 
Of  delicacy,  mercy,  judgment,  law. 
Morals,  and  precedents,  and  purity, 
Adulter}',  destitution,  and  divorce, 
Piety,  faith,  and  state  necessity. 
And  how  I  loved  the  queen  ! — and  then  I  wept, 
With  the  pathos  of  my  own  eloquence, 
And  every  tear  turned  to  a  millstone,  which 
Brained  many  a  gaping  pig,  and  there  was  made 
A  slough  of  blood  and  brains  upon  the  place. 


210 


(EDIPUS    TYRANNUS; 


Greased  with  the  pounded  bacon ;  round  and  rou  id 
The  millstones  rolled,  ploiifrhing  the  pavement  up, 
And  hurling  sucking  pigs  into  the  air, 
With  dust  and  stones. 

F.ntcr  Mammon. 

MAMMOX. 

I  wonder  that  gray  wizards 
I-ike  you  should  he  so  beardless  in  their  schemes ; 
It  had  been  but  a  point  of  policy 
To  keep  lona  and  the  swine  apart. 
Divide  and  rule  !  but  ye  have  made  a  junction 
Between  two  parties  who  will  govern  you, 

But  for  my  art Behold  this  iiao  !  it  is 

The  poison  bar  of  that  Green  Spider  huge, 
On  which  our  spies  skulked  in  ovation  through 
The  streets  of  Thebes,  when  they  were  paved  with 

dead : 
A  bane  so  much  the  deadlier  fills  it  now. 
As  calumny  is  worse  than  death, — for  here 
The  Gadfly's  venom,  fifty  times  distilled, 
Is  mingled  with  the  vomit  of  the  Leech, 
In  due  proportion,  and  black  ratsbane,  which 
That  very  Rat,  who,  like  the  Pontic  tj-rant, 
Nurtures  himself  on  poison,  dare  not  touch; — 
All  is  sealed  up  with  the  broad  seal  of  Fraud, 
Who  is  the  Devil's  Lord  High  Chancellor, 
And  over  it  the  primate  of  all  Hell 
Murmured  this  pious  baptism  : — ''  Be  thou  called 
The  on  i:e?<  k  acj  :  and  this  power  and  grace  be  thine : 
That  thy  contents,  on  whomsoever  poured, 
Turn  innocence  to  guilt,  and  gentlest  looks 
To  savage,  foul,  and  fierce  deformity. 
Let  all,  baptized  by  thy  infernal  dew, 
Be  called  adulterer,  drunkard,  har,  wretch ! 
No  name  left  out  which  orthodoxy  loves. 
Court  .Journal  or  legitimate  Review ! — 
Be  they  called  tyrant,  beast,  fool,  glutton,  lover 
Of  other  wives  and  husbands  than  their  own — 
The  heaviest  sin  on  this  side  of  the  Alps ! 
Wither  they  to  a  ghastly  caricature 
Of  what  was  human ! — let  not  man  nor  beast 
Behold  their  face  with  unaverted  eyes  ! 
Or  hear  their  names  with  ears  that  tingle  not 
With  blood  of  indignation,  rage  and  shame  !" 
This  is  a  perilous  liquor ; — good  my  Lords. 

[SwELLFOOT  approaches  to  touch  the  green  bag. 


Beware !  for  God's  sake,  beware ! — if  you  should 

break 
The  seal,  and  touch  the  fatal  liquor 

rURGANAX. 

There ! 
Give  it  to  me.     I  have  been  used  to  handle 
All  sorts  of  poisons.     His  dread  majesty 
Only  desires  to  see  the  colour  of  it. 

MAl«MO!f. 

Now,  with  a  little  common  sense,  my  Lords, 

Only  undoing  all  that  has  been  done, 

(Yet  so  as  it  may  seem  we  but  confirm  it,) 

Our  victory  is  assured.     We  must  entice 

Her  Majesty  from  the  sty,  and  make  the  pigs 

Believe  that  the  contents  of  the  giieex  bag 

Are  the  true  test  of  guilt  or  innocence. 

And  that,  if  she  be  guilty,  'twill  transform  her 

To  manifest  deformity  like  guilt. 

If  innocent,  she  will  become  transfigured 

Into  an  angel,  such  as  they  say  she  is ; 

And  they  will  see  her  flying  through  the  air. 

So  [night  that  she  will  dim  the  noonday  sun ; 

Showering  down  blessings  in  the  shape  of  comfits. 

This,  trust  a  priest,  is  just  the  sort  of  thing 

Swine  will  believe.     I'll  wager  you  will  see  them 

Climbing  upon  the  thatch  of  their  low  sties; 

W'ith  pieces  of  smoked  glass,  to  watch  her  sail 

Among  the  clouds,  and  some  will  hold  the  flaps 

Of  one  another's  ears  between  their  teeth, 

To  catch  the  coming  hail  of  comfits  in. 

You,  Purganax,  who  have  the  gift  o'  the  gab, 

Make  them  a  solemn  speech  to  this  effect  : 

I  go  to  put  in  readiness  the  feast 

Kept  to  the  honour  of  our  goddess  Famine, 

Where,  for  more  glory,  let  the  ceremony 

Take  place  of  the  uglification  of  the  Queen. 

DAKRT     {To  SwELLFOOT.) 

I,  as  the  keeper  of  your  sacred  conscience. 
Humbly  remind  your  Majesty  that  the  care 
Of  your  high  otlice,  as  man-milliner 
To  red  Bellona,  should  not  be  deferred. 

PURGAJfAX; 

All  part,  in  happier  plight  to  meet  again. 

[^Exeunt. 


ACT  II. 


SCENE  L 

The  Public  Sty. 

The  Boars  in  full  .Assembly. 

Enter  Purganax. 

PURGANAX. 

Grant  me  your  patience.  Gentlemen  and  Boars, 
Ye,  by  whose  patience  under  y)ublic  burdens 
The  glorious  constitution  of  these  sties 
Subsists,  and  shall  subsist.     1'he  lean  pig-rates 
Grow  with  the  growing  populace  of  swine, 


The  taxes,  that  true  source  of  piggishness, 
(How  can  I  find  a  more  appropriate  term 
To  include  religion,  morals,  peace,  and  plenty, 
And  all  that  fits  Bojotia  as  a  nation 
To  teach  the  other  nations  how  to  live !) 
Increase  with  piggishness  itself;  and  still 
Does  the  revenue,  that  great  spring  of  all 
The  patronage,  and  pensions,  and  by-payments. 
Which  frecborn  j)igs  regard  with  jealous  eyes, 
Diminish,  till  at  length,  by  glorious  steps, 
All  the  land's  produce  will  be  merged  in  taxes, 
And  the  revenue  will  amount  to nothing ! 


OR,    SWELLFOOT    THE    TYRANT. 


211 


The  failure  of  a  foreign  market  for 
Sausages,  bristles,  and  blood-pudilinRS, 
And  but  such  homo  manufactures,  is  but  partial ; 
And,  that  the  population  of  the  ])igs. 
Instead  of  hog-wash  has  been  fed  on  straw 
And  water,  is  a  fact  which  is — you  know — 
That  is — it  is  a  state  necessity — 
Temporary,  of  course.     Those  impious  pigs. 
Who,  by  frequent  squeaks,  have  dared  impugn 
The  settled  8wellt'oot  system,  or  to  make 
Irreverent  mockery  of  the  genuflexions 
Inculcated  by  the  arch-priest,  have  been  whipt 
Into  a  loyal  and  an  orthodox  whine. 
Things  being  in  this  happy  state,  the  Queen 

lona 

[^  Intd  cry  from  the  Pigs. 
She  is  innocent !  most  innocent ! 

PURGANAX. 

That  is  the  very  thing  that  I  was  saying. 
Gentlemen  Swine ;  the  Queen  lona  being 
Most  innocent,  no  doubt,  returns  to  Thebes, 
And  the  lean  sows  and  boars  collect  about  her, 
Wishing  to  make  her  tliink  that  we  believe 
(I  mean  those  more  substantial  pigs,  who  swill 
Rich   hog-wash,  while  the  others    mouth    damp 

straw,) 
That  she  is  guilty ;  thus,  the  lean-pig  faction 
Seeks  to  obtain  that  hog-wash,  which  has  been 
Your  innnemorial  right,  and  which  I  will 
Mauitain  you  in  to  the  last  drop  of — 


A   BOAn  (J.ntemipting  him.") 


What 


Does  any  one  accuse  her  of  ? 


PURGAXAX. 

Why,  no  one 
Makes  any  positive  accusation  ; — but 
There  were  hints  dropped,  and  so  the  privy  wizards 
Conceived  that  it  became  them  to  advise 
His  majesty  to  investigate  their  truth  ; — 
Not  for  his  own  sake  !  he  could  be  content 
To  let  his  wife  play  any  pranks  she  pleased, 
If,  by  that  sufferance,  he  could  please  the  pigs ; 
But  then  he  fears  the  morals  of  the  swine, 
The  sows  especially,  and  what  effect 
It  might  produce  upon  the  purity  and 
Religion  of  the  rising  generation 
Of  sucking-pigs,  if  it  could  be  suspected 
That  Queen  lona — •  [-^  pause. 

FIRST    BOAR. 

W^eH,  go  on  ;  we  long 
To  hear  what  she  can  possibly  have  done. 

PCRGAXAX. 

Why,  it  is  hinted,  that  a  certain  bull — 

Thus  much  is  known: — the  milkwhite  bulls  that 

feed 
Beside  Clitumnus  and  the  crystal  lakes 
Of  the  Cisalpine  mountains,  in  fresh  dews 
Of  lotus-grass  and  blossoming  asphodel. 
Sleeking  their  silken  hair,  and  with  sweet  breath 
Loading  the  moniing  winds  until  they  faint 
With  living  fragrance,  are  so  beautiful ! — 


Well,  /  say  nothing : — but  Europa  rode 
On  such  a  one  from  Asia  into  Crete, 
And  the  enamoured  sea  grew  calm  beneath 
His  gliding  beauty.     And  Pasijihac, 

lona's  grandmother, but  she  is  innocent  ! 

And  that  both  you  and  I,  and  all  assert. 


Most  innocent ! 


FIRST    BOAR. 
PURGANAX. 

Behold  this  Bag  ;  a  bag — 

SECOND    BOAR. 

Oh!  no  Green  Bags  ! !  Jealousy's  eyes  are  green, 
Scorpions  arc  green,  and  water-snakes,  and  efts, 
And  verdigris,  and — 

PURGANAX. 

Honourable  swine. 
In  piggish  souls  can  prepossessions  reign  1 
Allow  me  to  remind  you,  grass  is  green — 
All  flesh  is  grass ; — ^no  bacon  but  is  flesh — 
Ye  are  but  bacon.     This  divining  Bag 
(Which  is  not  green,  but  only  bacon  colour) 
Is  filled  with  liquor,  which  if  sprinkled  o'er 
A  woman  guilty  of — we  all  know  what — • 
Makes  her  so  hideous,  till  she  finds  one  blind, 
She  never  can  commit  the  like  again. 
If  innocent,  she  will  turn  into  an  angel, 
And  rain  down  blessings  in  the  shape  of  comfits 
As  she  flies  up  to  heaven.     Now,  my  proposal 
Is  to  convert  her  sacred  Majesty 
Into  an  angel,  (as  I  am  sure  we  shall  do,) 
By  pouring  on  her  head  this  mystic  water. 

[Shotcing  the  Bag. 
I  know  that  she  is  innocent ;  I  wish 
Only  to  prove  her  so  to  all  the  world. 

FIRST    BOAR. 

Excellent,  just,  and  noble  Purganax  ! 

SECOND     BOAR. 

How  glorious  it  will  be  to  see  her  Majesty 
Flying  above  our  heads,  her  petticoats 
Streaming  like — rlike — like — 

THIRD    BOAR. 

Any  thing. 
purganax. 

Oh,  no! 
But  like  a  standard  of  an  admiral's  ship. 
Or  like  the  banner  of  a  conquering  host. 
Or  like  a  cloud  dyed  in  the  dying  day, 
Unravelled  on  the  blast  from  a  white  mountain ; 
Or  like  a  meteor,  or  a  war-steed's  mane. 
Or  water-fall  from  a  dizzy  precipice 
Scattered  upon  the  wind. 

FIRST    BOAR. 

Or  a  cow's  tail, — 

SECOND    BOAR. 

Or  any  thing,  as  tlic  learned  Boar  observed. 

PURGANAX. 

Gentlemen  Boars,  I  move  a  resolution. 
That  her  most  sacred  Majesty  should  be 
Invited  to  attend  the  feast  of  Famine, 


212 


CEDIPUS    TYRANNUS; 


And  to  receive  upon  her  chaste  white  body 
Uews  of  Apotheosis  from  this  Bag. 

[jS  great   confusion  is   heard   of  the  Pigs  out  of 

Doors,  which  communicates  itself  to  those  within. 

During  thefrsl  Strophe,  the  doors  of  the  Strj  are 

staved  in,  and  a  number  of  cicetdinglij  /can  Pigs 

and  Sows  and  Boars  rush  in. 

SEMICHOKCS    I. 

No!  Yes! 

SF.MICHORrS    II.     ' 

Yes!  No! 

SEMicHonrs  i. 
A  law ! 

sEMicHonrs  ii. 
A  flaw! 

SEMicHonrs  i. 
Porkers,  we  shall  lose  our  wash, 
Or  must  share  it  with  the  lean  pigs ! 

FinST    BOAR. 

Order !  order !  be  not  rash ! 

Was  there  ever  such  a  scene,  Pigs ! 

AN  OLD  sow  (rushing  in.) 
I  never  saw  so  fine  a  dash 
Since  I  first  began  to  wean  pigs. 

SECOND   BOAR  (sokmnlt/.') 
The  Queen  will  be  an  angel  time  enough. 
I  vote,  in  form  of  an  amendment,  that 
Purganax  rub  a  Uttle  of  that  stuff 
Upon  his  face — 

PURGANAX. 

[His  heart  is  seen  to  beat  through  his  waistcoat. 
Gods !  What  would  ye  be  at  ? 

SEMICHORUS    I. 

Purganax  has  plainly  shown  a 
Cloven  foot  and  jack-daw  feather. 

SEMICHORtrS    II. 

I  vote  Swellfoot  and  lona 
Try  the  magic  test  together ; 
Whenever  royal  spouses  bicker. 
Both  should  try  the  magic  liquor. 

AX  OLD  BOAR  (aside.) 
A  miserable  state  is  that  of  pigs, 
For  if  their  drivers  would  tear  caps  and  wigs, 
The  swine  must  bite  each  other's  car  therefore. 
AN  OLD  sow  (aside.) 
A  wretched  lot  Jove  has  assigned  to  swine. 
Squabbling  makes  pig-herds  hungrj-,  and  they  dine 
On  bacon,  and  whip  sucking-pigs  the  more. 

CHORUS. 

Hog-wash  has  been  ta'en  away  : 
If  the  Bull-Queen  is  divested, 
We  shall  be  in  every  way 

Hunted,  stript,  exposed,  molested ; 
Let  us  do  whate'er  we  may. 
That  she  shall  not  be  arrested. 
Queen,  we  entrench  you  with  walls  of  bravm, 
And  palisades  of  tusks,  sharp  as  a  bayonet : 
Place  your  most  sacred  person  here.     We  pawTi 
Our  lives  that  none  a  finger  dare  to  lay  on  it. 


Those  who  wrong  you,  wrong  us ; 

Those  who  hate  you,  hate  us : 

Those  who  sting  you,  sting  us ; 

Those  who  bait  you,  bait  us ; 

The  oracle  is  now  about  to  be 

FuUillcd  by  circumvolving  destiny ; 
Which  says :  "  Thebes,  choose  reform  or  ciril  war, 
When  through  your  streets,  instead  of  hare  with 

.    Jogs, 
A  Consort  Queen  shall  hunt  a  King  with 

hogs. 
Riding  upon  the  Ionian  Minotaur." 
Enter  Iona  Taurina. 

Ion  A  Taurina  (coming  forward.) 
Gentlemen  swine,  and  gentle  lady-pigs, 
The  tender  heart  of  every  boar  acquits 
Their  Queen,  of  any  act  incong^ous 
With  native  piggishness,  and  she  reposing 
With  confidence  upon  the  grunting  nation. 
Has  thrown  herself,  her  cause,  her  life,  her  all, 
Her  innocence,  into  their  hoggish  arms ; 
Nor  has  the  expectation  been  deceived 
Of  finding  shelter  there.     Yet  know,  great  boars, 
(For  such  who  ever  lives  among  you  finds  you. 
And  so  do  I)  the  innocent  are  proud! 
I  have  accepted  your  protection  only 
In  compliment  of  your  kind  love  and  care. 
Not  for  necessity.     The  innocent 
Are  safest  there  where  trials  and  dangers  wait ; 
Innocent    Queens    o'er   white-hot    ploughshares 

tread 
Unsinged ;  and  ladies,  Erin's  laureate  sings  it,* 
Decked  with  rare  gems  and  beauty  rarer  still. 
Walked  fi-om  Killamey  to  the  Giant's  Causeway, 
Through  rebels,  smugglers,  troops  of  yeomanry, 
White-boys,  and  orange-boys,  and  constables. 
Tithe-proctors,  and  excise  people,  uninjured  ! 
Thus  I  !— 

Lord  Purganax,  I  do  commit  myself 
Into  your  custody,  and  am  prepared 
To  stand  the  test,  whatever  it  may  be  ! 

purganax. 
This  magnanimity  in  your  sacred  Majesty 
Must  please  the  pigs.     You  cannot  fail  of  being 
A  heavenlv  angel.     Smoke  your  bits  of  glass 
Ye  loyal  swine,  or  her  transfiguration 
Will  blind  your  wondering  eyes. 

AN    OLD    BOAR   (osidc.) 

Take  care,  my  Lord, 
They  do  not  smoke  you  first. 

PURGANAX. 

At  the  approaching  feast 
Of  Famine,  let  the  expiation  be. 

SWINE. 

Content!  content! 

ZONA  TAURINA  (ttside.) 

I,  most  content  of  all. 
Know  that  my  foes  even  thus  prepare  their  fall ! 

[Exeunt  omnes. 


*  "  Rich  and  rare  were  the  gems  she  wore." 

See  Moore's  Irish  Melodies. 


OR,    SWELLFOOT    THE    TYRANT. 


213 


SCENE  11. 

The  interior  of  the  Temple  of  Famine.  The  statue  of 
the  Goddess,  a  itkeleton  clothed  in  party-coloured  rags, 
sealed  upon  a  heap  of  skulls  and  luaccs  interiiiini/led. 
A  number  of  eiceediii'rly  fat  Priests  in  black  garments 
arrayed  on  each  side,  with  marrow-hones  and  cleavers 
in  their  hands.     A  flourish  of  trumpets. 

Enter  Mammon  as  Arch-priest,  Swkli.foot, 
Dakry,  Puroanax,  Laoctonos,  followed  by 
lONA  Twuirtji.  g-uarded.  On  the  other  side  enter 
the  Swine. 

ciioncs  OF  spiniTS, 

Accompanied  by  the  Court  Porkman  on  marrow-bones 
and  cleavers. 
Goddess  bare,  and  gaunt,  and  pale, 
E  inprcss  of  the  world,  all  hail ! 
What  though  Cretans  old  called  thee 
City-crested  Cybele  ] 
We  call  thee  Famine  ! 

Goddess  of  fasts  and  feasts,  starving  and  cram- 
ming ; 
Through  thee,  for  emperors,  kings,  and  priests  and 

lord.s, 
Who  rule  by  viziers,  sceptres,  bank-notes,  words. 
The  earth  pours  forth  its  plenteous  fruits. 
Corn,  wool,  linen,  flesh,  and  roots —  [fat. 

Those  who  consume  these  fruits  through  thee  grow 
Those  who  produce  these   fruits  through  thee 
grow  lean, 
Whatever  change  takes  place,  oh,  stick  to  that ! 

And  let  things  be  as  they  have  ever  been: 
At  least  while  we  remain  thy  priests. 
And  proclaim  thy  fasts  and  feasts ! 
Through  thee  the  sacred  Swellfoot  dynasty 
Is  based  upon  a  rock  amid  that  sea 
Whose  waves  are  s^vine — so  let  it  ever  be ! 

[SwELi.FOOT,  .^-c.  seat  themselves  at  a  table,  matrnifi- 
ccntly  covered  at  the  upper  end  of  the  temple.  Attend- 
ants pass  over  the  statre  with  hog-wash  in  pails.  A 
number  of  Pigs,  exceedingly  lean,  follow  them  licking 
up  the  wash. 

MAXMOX. 

I  fear  your  sacred  Maje.sty  has  lost 

The  appetite  which  you  were  used  to  have. 

Allow  me  now  to  recommend  this  dish — 

A  simple  kickshaw  by  your  Persian  cook, 

Such  as  is  served  at  the  great  King's  second  table. 

The  price  and  pains  which  its  ingredients  cost, 

Miglit  have  maintamcd  some  dozen  families 

A  winter  or  two — ^not  more — so  plain  a  dish    • 

Could  scarcely  disagree. — 

SWELLFOOT. 

After  the  trial, 
And  these  fastidious  pigs  are  gone,  perhaps 
I  may  recover  my  lost  appetite, — 
I  feel  the  gout  flying  about  my  stomach — 
Give  me  a  glass  of  Maraschino  punch. 

PUIIRANAX. 

[Filling  his  glass,  and  standing  vp. 
The  glorious  constitution  of  the  Pigs ! 

ALL. 

A  toast !  a  toast !  stand  uj),  and  three  times  three  ! 


DAKRY. 

No  heel-taps — darken  day-Ughts ! 

LAOCTONOS. 

Claret,  somehow, 
Puts  me  in  mind  of  blood,  and  blood  of  claret ! 

SWELLFOOT. 

Laocfonos  is  fishing  for  a  compliment. 

But  'tis  hisdue.     Yes,  you  have  drunk  more  wine. 

And  shed  more  blood,  than  any  man  in  Thebes. 

(To  PURGANAX.) 

For  God's  sake  stop  the  grunting  of  those  pigs  ! 

PUncAXAX. 

We  dare  not,  sire !  'tis  Famine's  privilege. 

CHORUS    OF    SWINE. 

Hail  to  thee,  hail  to  thee.  Famine  ! 

Thy  throne  is  on  blood,  and  thy  rope  is  of  rags ; 
Thou  devil  which  livest  on  damning ; 

Saint    of  new  churches,  and  cant,  and  Green 

Till  in  pity  and  terror  thou  risest,  [Bags  ; 

■    Confounding  the  schemes  of  the  wisest. 

When  thou  llftest  thy  skeleton  form. 

When  the  loaves  and  the  skulls  roll  about, 

We  will  greet  thee — the  voice  of  a  storm 
Would  be  lost  in  our  terrible  shout ! 

Tlicn  hail  to  thee,  hail  to  thee.  Famine  ! 

Hail  to  thee,  Empress  of  Earth! 
When  tliou  risest,  dividing  possessions ; 
Wlien  thou  risest,  uprooting  oppressions ; 

In  the  pride  of  thy  ghastly  mirth. 
Over  palaces,  temples,  and  graves, 
W^e  will  rush  as  thy  minister-slaves, 
Trampling  behind  in  thy  train, 
Till  all  will  be  made  level  again  ! 


I  hear  a  crackling  of  the  giant  bones 

Of  the  dread  image,  and  in  the  black  pits 

Which  once  were  eyes,  I  see  two  livid  flames  : 

These  prodigies  are  oracular,  and  show 

The  presence  of  the  unseen  Deity. 

Mighty  events  are  hastening  to  their  doom  ! 

SWELLFOOT. 

I  only  hear  the  lean  and  mutinous  swine 
Grunting  about  the  temple. 


In  a  crisis 
Of  such  exceeding  delicacy,  I  ihink 
We  ought  to  put  her  Majesty  the  Queen, 
Upon  her  trial  without  delay. 


The  Bag 


Is  here. 


PURGANAX. 

I  have  rehearsed  the  entire  scene 
With  an  ox-bladder  and  some  ditch-water. 
On  Lady  P. — it  caimot  fail. 

[Taking  up  the  ba 


214        CEDIPUS    TYRANNUS;     OR,    SWELLFOOT    THE    TYRANT. 


Your  Majesty  {to  Swellfoot) 
In  such  a  filthy  business  had  better 
Stand  on  one  side,  lest  it  sliould  sprinkle  you. 
A  spot  or  two  on  me  would  do  no  harm ; 
Nay,  it  might  hide  the  blood,  which  the  sad  genius 
Of  the  Green  Isle  has  fixed,  as  by  a  sjjell, 
Upon  ray  brow — which  would  stain  all  its  seas, 
But  which  those  seas  could  never  wash  away  ! 

lOXA    TAUHINA. 

My  Lord,  I  am  ready — nay  I  am  impatient, 

To  undergo  the  test. 

[A  rrraceful  figure  in  a  sev<i-transparcnt  veil  passes 
unnoticed  through  the  Temple  ;  the  tcord  Liberty 
is  seen  through  the  veil,  as  if  it  were  written  in  fire 
upon  its  forehead.  Ilsirords  are  almost  drowned  in 
the  furious  grunting  of  the  Pigs,  and  the  business 
of  the  trial.  She  kneels  on  the  steps  of  the  Altdr, 
and  speaks  in  tones  at  first  faint  and  low,  but  wliich 
ever  become  louder  and  louder. 

Mighty  Empress  !  Death's  white  wife  ! 
Ghastly  mother-in-law  of  hfe  ! 
By  the  God  who  made  thee  such, 
By  the  magic  of  thy  touch. 
By  the  starving  and  the  cramming. 
Of  fasts  and  feasts ! — by  thy  dread  self,  O  Famine  ! 
I  charge  tliee  !  when  thou  wake  the  multitude, 
Thou  lead  them  not  upon  the  paths  of  blood. 
The  earth  did  never  mean  her  foizon 
For  those  who  crown  life's  cup  with  poison 
Of  fanatic  rage  and  meaningless  revenge — 
But  for  those  radiant  spirits,  who  are  still 
The  standard-bearers  in  the  van  of  Change. 

Be  they  th'  appointed  stewards,  to  fill 
The  lap  of  Pain,  and  toil,  and  Age  ! — 
Remit,  0  Queen  !  thy  accustom'd  rage  ! 
Be  what  thou  art  not !     In  voice  faint  and  low 
FnnEnoM  calls  Famine, — her  eternal  foe. 
To  brief  ahiance,  hollow  truce.^-Rise  now  ! 

[lyhilst  the  veiled  Figure  has  been  chaunting  this 
strophe.  Mammon,  Dakry,  Laoctonos,  and 
SwELLFOOT,  have  surrounded  Ion  A  Taurina, 
who,  with  her  hands  folded  on  her  breast,  and  her 
eyes  lifted  to  Heaven,  stands,  as  with  saint-like 
resignation,  to  wail  the  issue  of  the  business,  tji 
perfect  confidence  of  her  innocence. 

PuncANAX,  after  unsealing  the  Green  Bag,  is 
gravely  about  to  pour  the  liquor  upon  her  head, 
when  suddenly  the  whoje  expression  of  her  figure  and 
countenance  changes  ;  she  snatches  it  from  his  hand 
with  a  loud  laugh  of  triumph,  and  empties  it  over 
SwELLFOOTanrf  his  whole  Court,  who  are  instantly 
changed  into  a  number  of  filthy  and  ugly  animals, 
andrush  out  of  the  Temple.  The  image  o/Famine 
then  arises  with  a  tremendous  sound,  the  Pigs  Jeo-jn 
scrambling  for  the  loaves,  and  are  tripped  up  by 


the  skulls  ;  all  those  who  eat  the  loaves  are  turned 
into  Bulls,  and  arrange  themselves  quietly  behind 
the  altar.  The  image  of  Famine  sinks  through  a 
chasm  in.  the  earth,  and  a  Minotaur  rises. 

MIXOTAL'K. 

I  am  the  Ionian  Minotaur,  the  mightiest 

Of  all  Europa's  progeny — 

I  am  the  old  traditional  man  bull ; 

And  from  my  ancestors  having  been  Ionian, 

I  am  called  Ion,  which,  by  interiJretation, 

Is  John  ;  in  plain  Thebau,  that  is  to  say. 

My  name's  John  Bull  ;  I  am  a  famous  hunter 

And  can  leap  any  gate  in  all  Bojotia, 

Even  the  palings  of  the  royal  park. 

Or  double  ditch  about  the  new  enclosures'; 

And  if  your  Majesty  will  deign  to  mount  me, 

At  least  till  you  have  hunted  down  your  game, 

I  will  not  throw  you. 

lOXA    TAUniNA. 

[During  this  speech  she  has  been  putting  on  boots 
and  spurs,  and  a  hunting-cap,  burkishhj  cocked  on 
one  side,  and  tucking  up  her  hair,  she  leaps  nimbly 
on  his  back. 

Hoa  !  hoa  !  tallyho  !  tallyho  !  ho  !  ho ! 
Come,  let  us  hunt  these  ugly  badgers  down. 
These  stinking  foxes,  these  devouring  otters. 
These  hares,  these  wolves,  these  any  thing  but  men. 
Hey,  for  a  whipper-in  !  my  loyal  pigs. 
Now  let  your  noses  be  as  keen  as  beagles'. 
Your  steps  as  swift  as  grayhounds',  and  your  cries 
More  dulcet  and  symphonious  than  the  bells 
Of  village-towers,  on  sunshine  holiday  ; 
Wake  all  the  dewy  woods  with  janglijig  music. 
Give  them  no  law  (are  they  not  beasts  of  blood?) 
But  such  as  they  gave  you.     Tallyho  !  ho  ! 
Tlirough  forest,  furze,  and  bog,  and  den,  and  diwcrt. 
Pursue  the  ugly  beasts  !  tallyho  !  ho  ! 

FULL    CHORUS    OF    lOXA    AWD    TIIE     SWINE. 

Tallyho  !  tallyho ! 
Through  rain,  hail,  and  snow. 
Through  brake,  gorse,  and  brier, 
Through  fen,  flood,  and  inire, 

We  go  !  we  go  ! 

Tallyho  !  tallyho  ! 
Through  pond,  ditch,  and  slough, 
Wind  them,  and  find  them. 
Like  the  Devil  behind  them, 

Tallyho !  tallyho ! 
[Exeunt,  in  full  cry  ;  Iona  driving  on  the  Swine, 
with  the  empty  Green  Bag. 


EDITOR'S    NOTE    ON    CEDIPUS    TYRANNUS. 


215 


NOTE  ON  (EDIPUS  TYRANNUS. 


BV  THE  EDITOR. 


In  the  brief  journal  I  kept  in  those  days,  I  find 
recorded,  in  August,  1830,  Shelley  "  beg-ins"Swell- 
foot  the  Tyrant,  suggested  by  the  pigs  at  the  fair 
of  San  Giuliano."  This  was  the  period  of  Quecu 
Caroline's  landing  in  England,  and  the  struggles 
made  by  Geo.  IV.  to  get  rid  of  her  claims ;  which 
failing,  Lord  Castlereagh  placed  the  "  Green  Bag" 
on  the  table  of  the  House  of  Commons,  demand- 
ing, in  the  King's  name,  that  an  inquiry  should  be 
instituted  into  his  wife's  conduct.  These  circum- 
stances were  the  theme  of  all  conversation  among 
the  EngUsh.  We  were  then  at  the  Baths  of  San 
Giuliano ;  a  fi'iend  came  to  visit  us  on  the  day 
when  a  fair  was  hold  in  the  ■  square,  beneatli  our 
windows :  Shelley  read  to  us  his  ode  to  Liberty ; 
and  was  riotously  accompanied  by  the  gi'unting  of 
a  quantity  of  pigs  brought  for  sale  to  the  fair.  He 
compared  it  to  the  "  chorus  of  frogs"  in  the  satiric 
drama  of  Aristophanes ;  and  it  being  an  hour  of 
merriment,  and  one  ludicrous  association  suggest* 
ing  another,  he  imagined  a  political  satirical  drama 
on  the  circumstances  of  the  day,  to  which  the  pigs 
would  serve  as  chorus — and  Swellfoot  was  begun. 
When  finished,  it  was  transmitted  to  England, 
printed  and  published  anonymously ;  but  stifled  at 
the  very  dawn  of  its  existence  by  the  "  Society  for 
the  Suppression  of  Vice,"  who  threatened  to  pro- 
secute it,  if  not  immediately  withdrawn.  The 
friend  who  had  taken  the  trouble  of  bringing  it  out, 
of  coiu"se  did  not  think  it  worth  the  annoyance  and 
expense  of  a  contest,  and  it  was  laid  aside. 


Hesitation  of  whether  it  would  do  honour  to 
Shelley  prevented  my  publishing  it  at  first ;  but 
I  cannot  bring  myself  to  keep  back  anything  ho 
ever  wrote,  for  each  word  is  fraught  with  the  pe- 
culiar views  and  sentiments  which  he  believed  to 
be  beneficial  to  the  human  race ;  and  the  bright 
light  of  poetry  irradiates  every  thought.  The 
world  has  a  right  to  the  entire  compositions  of 
such  a  man  ;  for  it  docs  not  live  and  thrive  by  the 
out-worn  lesson  of  the  dullard  or  the  hypocrite,  but 
by  the  original  free  thoughts  of  men  of  Genius, 
who  aspire  to  pluck  bright  truth 

" from  Ihe  pale fnccd  moon; 


Or  (live  into  the  bottom  of  the  deep, 

Where  fithom-line  could  never  touch  the  ground, 

And  pluck  up  drowned — " 

truth.  Even  those  who  may  dissent  from  his 
opinions  will  consider  that  he  was  a  man  of  genius, 
and  that  the  world  will  take  more  interest  in  his 
slightest  word,  than  from  the  waters  of  Lethe, 
which  are  so  eagerly  prescribed  as  medicinal  for  all 
its  wrongs  and  woes.  This  drama,  however,  must 
not  be  judged  for  more  than  was  meant.  It  is  a 
mere  plaything  of  the  imagination,  which  even 
may  not  excite  smiles  among  many,  who  will  not 
see  wit  in  those  combinations  of  thought  which 
were  full  of  the  ridiculous  to  the  author.  But, 
like  every  thing  he  wrote,  it  breathes  that  deep 
sympathy  for  the  sorrows  of  humanity,  and  indig- 
nation against  its  oppressors,  which  make  it  worthy 
of  his  name. 


EAELY  POEMS. 


MUTABILITY. 

We  are  as  clouds  that  veil  the  midnight  moon ; 

How  restlessly  they  speed,  and  gleam,  and  quiver, 
Streaking  the  darkness  radiantly ! — yet  soon 

IVight  closes  round,  and  they  are  lost  for  ever : 

Or  like  forgotten  lyres,  whose  dissonant  strings 
Give  various  response  to  each  varying  hlast. 

To  whose  frail  frame  no  second  motion  brings 
One  mood  or  modulation  like  the  last. 

We  rest — A  dream  has  power  to  poison  sleep ; 

We  rise — One  wandering  thought  pollutes  the 
day; 
We  feel,  conceive  or  reason,  laugh  or  weep ; 

Embrace  fond  wo,  or  cast  our  cares  away  : 

It  is  the  same  ! — For,  be  it  joy  or  sorrow, 
The  path  of  its  departure  still  is  free ; 

Man's  yesterday  may  ne'er  be  like  his  morrow  ; 
Nought  may  endure  but  Mutability. 


ON  DEATH. 

There  is  no  work,  tior  device,  nor  knowledge,  nor  wis- 
dom, in  the  grave,  whither  thou  goest. — Ecclesiastes. 

The  pale,  the  cold,  and  the  moony  smile 
Which  the  meteor  beam  of  a  starless  night 

Sheds  on  a  lonely  and  sea-girt  isle, 

Ere  the  dawning  of  morn's  undoubted  light. 

Is  the  flame  of  life  so  fickle  and  wan 

That  flits  round  our  steps  till  their  strength  is  gone. 

0  man  !  hold  thee  on  in  courage  of  soul 

Through  the  stormy  shades  of  thy  worldly  way, 

And  the  billows  of  cloud  that  aroimd  thee  roll 
Shall  sleep  in  the  light  of  a  wondrous  day, 

Where  hell  and  heaven  shall  leave  thee  free 

To  the  universe  of  destiny. 

This  world  is  the  nurse  of  all  we  know. 
This  world  is  the  mother  of  all  we  feel. 

And  the  coming  of  death  is  a  fearful  blow. 

To  a  brain  unencompassed  with  nerves  of  steel; 

When  all  that  we  know,  or  feel,  or  see, 

Shall  pass  like  an  unreal  mystery. 

The  secret  things  of  the  grave  are  there. 
Where  all  but  this  frame  must  surely  be. 

Though  the  fine-wrought  eye  and  the  wondrous  ear 
No  longer  will  live  to  hear  or  to  see 

All  that  is  groat  and  all  that  is  strange 

In  the  boundless  realm  of  unending  change. 
216 


Who  tclleth  a  talc  of  unspeaking  death  T 
Who  lifteth  the  veil  of  what  is  to  come  1 

Who  paintcth  the  shadows  that  are  beneath 
The  wide-winding  caves  of  the  peopled  tomb  ? 

Or  uniteth  the  hopes  of  what  shall  be 

With  the  fears  and  the  love  for  that  which  we  see  ] 


A  SUMMER-EVENING  CHURCHYARD, 

LECUDALE,   GLOUCESTERSHIRE. 

The  wind  has  swept  from  the  wide  atmosphere 
Each  vapour  that  obscured  the  sunset's  ray ; 

And  pallid  evening  twines  its  beaming  hair 

In  duskier  braids  around  the  languid  eyes  of  day : 

Silence  and  twilight,  unbeloved  of  men. 

Creep  hand  in  hand  from  yon  obscurest  glen. 

They  breathe  their  spells  towards  the  departing  day. 
Encompassing  the  earth,  air,  stars,  and  sea; 

Light,  sound,  and  motion  own  the  potent  sway. 
Responding  to  the  charm  with  its  own  mystery. 

The  winds  are  still,  or  the  dry  church-tower  grass 

Knows  not  their  gentle  motions  as  they  pass. 

Thou  too,  aerial  Pile  !  whose  pinnacles 

Point  from  one  shrine  like  pyramids  of  fire, 
Obeyest  in  silence  their  sweet  solemn  spells, 
*    Clothing  in  hues  of  heaven  thy  dim  and  distant 
Around  whose  lessening  and  invisible  height  [spire. 
Gather  among  the  stars  the  clouds  of  night. 

The  dead  are  sleeping  in  their  sepulchres  : 

And,  mouldering  as  they  sleep,  a  thrilling  sound. 

Half  sense,  half  thought,  among  the  darkness  stirs, 
Breathed  from  their  wormy  beds  all  hving  things 
around, 

And  mingling  with  the  still  night  and  mute  sky 

Its  awful  hush  is  felt  inaudibly. 

Thus  solemnized  and  softened,  death  is  mild 
And  tcrrorless  as  this  serencst  night : 

Here  could  I  hope,  like  some  inquiring  child 
Sporting  on  graves,  that  death  did  hide  from 
human  sight 

Sweet  secrets,  or  beside  its  breathless  sleep 

That  loveliest  dreams  perpetual  watch  did  keep. 


f  Q  »  »  »  »^ 

AAKPYEl  AlOlsn  nOTMON  AnOTMON. 

Oh  !  there  are  spirits  in  the  air, 
And  genii  of  the  evening  breeze, 


EARLY    POEMS. 


217 


And  gentlo  ghosts,  with  eyes  as  fair 
As  starboaiiis  among  twilight  trees: — 
Such  lovely  iiiiiiisters  to  meet 
Oil  hast  thou  turned  from  men  thy  lonely  feet. 

With  mountain  winds,  and  hahbling  springs, 

And  mountain  seas,  that  arc  the  voice 
Of  these  inex])licable  things, 

Thou  didst  hold  commune,  and  rejoice 
When  they  did  answer  thee  ;  hut  they 
Cast,  like  a  worthless  boon,  thy  love  away. 

And  thou  hast  sought  in  starry  eyes 

Beams  that  were  never  meant  for  thine. 
Another's  wealth  ; — tame  sacrifice 

To  a  fond  faith  !  still  dost  thou  pine  1 
Still  dost  thou  hope  that  greeting  hands. 
Voice,  looks,  or  lips,  maj-  answer  thy  demands  1 

Ah !  wherefore  didst  thou  build  tliinc  hope 

On  the  false  earth's  inconstancy  ] 
Did  thine  own  mind  afford  no  scope 
Of  love,  or  moving  thoughts  to  thee  1 
That  natural  scenes  or  human  smiles 
Could  steal  the  power  to  wind  thee  in  their  wiles. 

Yes,  all  the  faithless  smiles  are  fled 

Whose  falsehood  left  thee  broken-hearted ; 
The  glory  of  the  moon  is  dead ; 

Night's  ghost  and  dreams  have  now  departed  ; 
Thine  own  soul  still  is  true  to  thee. 
But  changed  to  a  foul  fiend  through  miserj'. 

This  fiend,  whose  ghastly  presence  ever 

Beside  thee  like  thy  shadow  hangs, 
Dream  not  to  chase ; — the  mad  endeavour 
Would  scourge  thee  to  severer  pangs. 
Be  as  thou  art.     Thy  settled  fate, 
Dark  as  it  is,  all  change  w-ould  aggravate. 


STANZAS.— APRIL,  1814. 

Away  !  the  moor  is  dark  beneath  the  moon. 
Rapid  clouds  have  drunk  the  last  pale  beam  of 
even :  [soon. 

Away  !  the  gathering  winds  will  call  the  darkness 
And  profoundest  midnight  shroud   the  serene 
lights  of  heaven.  [Away  ! 

Pause  not!  The  time  is  past!  Every  voice  cries. 
Tempt  not  with  one  last  glance  thy  friend's  un- 
gentle mood :  [treat  thy  stay  : 
Thy  lover's  eye,  so  glazed  and  cold,  dares  not  en- 
Duty  and  dereliction  guide  thee  back  to  solitude. 

Away,  away  !  to  thy  sad  and  silent  home ; 
Pour  bitter  tears  on  its  desolated  hearth  ; 
W'atch  the  dim  shades  as  like  ghosts  they  go  and 
come,  [mirth ; 

And   complicate   strange  webs    of  melancholy 
The  leaves  of  wasted  autumn  woods  shall  float 
around  thine  head,  [thy  feet : 

The  blooms  of  dewy  spring  shall  gleam  beneath 
But  thy  soul  or  this  world  must  fade  in  the  frost 
that  binds  the  dead. 
Ere  midnight's  frown  and  morning's  smile,  ere 
thou  and  peace  may  meet. 
28 


The  cloud  shadows  of  midniglit  possess  their  own 
repose,  [in  the  deep ; 

For  the  weary  winds  are  silent,  or  the  moon  is 
Some  respite  to   its   turbulence   unresting   ocean 
knows ; 
Whatever  moves,  or  toils,  or  grieves,  hath  its 
ai>pointed  sleep.  [floe 

Thou  in  the  grave  shalt  rest — yet  till  the  pliantoms 
Which  that  house  and  heath  and  garden  made 
dear  to  thee  erewhile, 
Thy    remembrance,    and    repentance,    and    deep 
musings,  are  not  free, 
From  the  music  of  two  voices,  and  the  light  of 
one  sweet  smile. 


LINES. 


The  cold  earth  slept  below. 
Above  the  cold  sky  shone, 

And  all  around 

With  a  chilling  sound. 
From  caves  of  ice  and  fields  of  snow, 
The  breath  of  night  like  death  did  flow 

Beneath  the  sinking  moon. 

The  wintiy  hedge  was  black. 
The  green  grass  was  not  seen. 

The  birds  did  rest 

On  the  bare  thorn's  breast, 
W^hose  roots,  beside  the  pathway  track, 
Had  bound  their  folds  o'er  many  a  crack 

W'hich  the  frost  had  made  between. 

Thine  eyes  glowed  in  the  glare 
Of  the  moon's  dying  light, 

As  a  fen-fire's  beam 

On  a  sluggish  stream 
Gleams  dimly — so  the  moon  shone  there. 
And  it  yellowed  the  strings  of  thy  tangled  hair, 

That  shook  in  the  wind  of  night. 

The  moon  made  thy  lips  pale,  beloved; 
The  wind  made  thy  bosom  chill ; 

The  night  did  shed 

On  thy  dear  head 
Its  fi-ozen  dew,  and  thou  didst  lie 
Where  the  bitter  breath  of  the  naked  sky 

Might  visit  thee  at  will. 

Xovemher,  1S15. 


TO  WORDSWORTH. 

Por.T  of  Nature,  thou  hast  wept  to  know 
That  things  depart  which  never  may  return  ; 
Childhood  and  youth,  friendsliip  and  love's  first 

glow. 
Have  fled  like  swe«t  dreams,  leaving  thee  to  mourn. 
These  common  woes  I  feel.     One  loss  is  mine. 
Which  thou  too  feel'st ;  yet  I  alone  deplore. 
Thou  wert  as  a  lone  star,  whose  light  did  shine 
On  some  frail  bark  in  winter's  midnight  roar ; 
T 


218 


EDITOR'S    NOTE    ON    THE    EARLY    POEMS. 


Thou  hast  like  to  a  rock-built  rcfui^c  stood 
Above  the  blind  and  battling  multitude : 
In  honoured  poverty  thy  voice  did  weave 
Songs  consecrate  to  truth  and  liberty, — • 
Deserting  these,  thou  Icavest  mc  to  grieve, 
Thus  having  been,  that  thou  shouldst  cease  to  be. 


FEELINGS  OF  A  REPUBLICAN  ON  THE 
FALL  OF  BONAPARTE. 

I  HATKi)  thee,  fallen  tyrant !     I  did  groan 
To  think  that  a  most  ambitious  slave, 


Like  thou,  shouldst  dance  and  revel  on  the  grave 
Of  Liberty.     Thou  mightst  have  built  thy  throne 
Where  it  had  stood  even  now :  thou  didst  prefer 
A  frail  and  bloody  pomp,  which  time  has  swept 
In  fragments  towards  oblivion.     Massacre, 
For    this    I    prayed,    would    on    thy    sleep   have 

crept. 
Treason  and  Slavery,  Rapine,  Fear,  and  Lust, 
And  stifled  thee,  their  minister.     I  know 
Too  late,  since  thou  and  France  arc  ui  the  dust, 
That  Virtue  owns  a  more  eternal  foe 
Than  force  or  fraud :  old  Custom,  legal  Crime, 
And  bloody  Faith,  the  foulest  bii-th  of  time. 


NOTE  ON  THE  EARLY  POEMS. 

BY  THE  EDITOR. 


The  remainder  of  Shelley's  Poems  will  be 
arranged  in  the  order  in  which  they  were  written. 
Of  course,  mistakes  will  occur  in  placing  some  of 
the  shorter  ones;  for,  as  I  have  said,  many  of 
these  were  thrown  aside,  and  I  never  saw  them 
till  I  had  the  misery  of  looking  over  his  writings, 
after  the  hand  that  traced  them  was  dust;  and 
some  were  in  the  hands  of  others,  and  I  never  saw 
them  till  now.  The  subjects  of  the  poems  are 
often  to  me  an  unerring  guide;  but  on  other 
occasions,  I  can  only  guess,  by  finding  them  in  the 
pages  of  the  same  manuscript  book  that  contains 
poems  with  the  date  of  whose  composition  I  am 
fully  conversant.  In  the  present  arrangement  all 
his  poetical  translations  will  be  placed  together  at 
the  end  of  the  volume. 

The  loss  of  his  early  papers  prevents  my  being 
able  to  give  any  of  the  poetry  of  his  boyhood.  Of 
the  few  I  give  as  early  poems,  the  greater  part 
were  published  with  "  Alastor ;"  some  of  them 
were  written  previously,  some  at  the  same  period. 
The  poem  beginning,  "  Oh,  there  are  spirits  in  the 
air,"  was  addressed  in  idea  to  Coleridge,  whom  he 
never  knew ;  and  at  whose  character  he  could  only 
guess  imperfectly,  through  his  writings,  and  ac- 
counts he  heard  of  him  from  some  who  knew 
him  well.  He  regarded  his  change  of  opinions  as 
rather  an  act  of  will  than  conviction,  and  believed 
that  in  his  inner  heart  he  would  be  haunted  by 
what  Shelley  considered  the  better  and  holier 
aspirations  of  his  youth.  The  summer  evening 
that  suggested  to  him  the  poem  written  in  the 
churchyard    of    Lechdale,    occurred    during    his 


voyage  up  the  Thames,  in  the  autumn  of  1815. 
He  had  been  advised  by  a  physician  to  live  as 
much  as  possible  in  the  open  air ;  and  a  fortnight 
of  a  bright  warm  July  was  spent  in  tracing  the 
Thames  to  its  source.  He  never  spent  a  season 
more  tranquilly  than  the  summer  of  1815.  He 
had  just  recovered  from  a  severe  pulmonary  attack; 
the  weather  was  warm  and  pleasant.  He  lived 
near  Windsor  Forest,  and  his  life  was  spent  under 
its  shades,  or  on  the  water;  meditating  subjects 
for  verse.  Hitherto,  he  had  chiefly  aimed  at 
extending  his  political  doctrines ;  and  attempted 
so  to  do  by  appeals,  in  prose  essays,  to  the  people, 
exhorting  them  to  claim  their  rights ;  but  he  had 
now  begun  to  feel  that  the  time  for  action  was  not 
ripe  in  England,  and  that  the  pen  was  the  only 
instrument  wherewith  to  prepare  the  way  for 
better  things. 

In  the  scanty  journals  kept  during  those  years, 
I  find  a  record  of  the  books  that  Shelley  read 
during  several  years.  During  the  years  of  1814 
and  1815,  the  list  is  extensive.  It  includes  in 
Greek ;  Homer,  Hesiod,  Theocritus — the  histories 
of  Thucydides  and  Herodotus,  and  Diogenes  Laer- 
tius.  In  Latin ;  Petronius,  Suetonius,  some  of  the 
works  of  Cicero,  a  large  proportion  of  those  of  Se- 
neca and  Livy.  In  English ;  Milton's  Poems, 
Wordsworth's  Excursion,  Southey's  Madoc  and 
Thalaba,  Locke  on  the  Human  Understanding, 
Bacon's  Novum  Organum.  In  Italian,  Ariosto, 
Tasso,  and  Alfieri.  In  French,  the  Reveries  d'un 
Solitaire  of  Rousseau.  To  these  may  be  added  seve- 
ral modern  books  of  travels.     He  read  few  novels. 


POEMS  WRITTE^s   IN  MDCCCXVI. 


THE  SUNSET. 


TiiKRF.  hite  was  One,  within  whose  subtle  being, 
As  lij^ht  and  wind  within  some  delicate  cloud 
That  lades  amid  the  blue  noon's  burning  sky, 
Genius  and  death  contended.     None  may  know 
The  sweetness  of  the  joy  which  made  his  breath 
Fail,  like  the  trances  of  the  summer  air. 
When,  with  the  Lady  of  his  love,  who  then 
First  knew  the  unreserve  of  mingled  being, 
He  walked  along  the  pathway  of  a  field. 
Which  to  the  east  a  hoar  wood  shadowed  o'er, 
But  to  the  west  was  open  to  the  sky. 
There  now  the  sun  had  sunk,  but  lines  of  gold 
Hung  on  the  ashen  clouds,  and  on  the  points 
Of  the  far  level  grass  and  nodding  flowers, 
And  the  old  dandelion's  hoary  beard, 
And,  mingled  with  the  shades  of  twilight,  lay 
On  the  brown  massy  woods — and  in  the  east 
The  broad  and  burning  moon  lingeringly  rose 
Between  the  black  trunks  of  the  crowded  trees. 
While  the  faint  stars  were  gathering  overhead. — 
"Is  it  not  strange,  Isabel,"  said  the  youth, 
"  I  never  saw  the  sun  ]     We  will  walk  here 
To-morrow ;  thou  shalt  look  on  it  with  me." 
That  night  the  youth  and  lady  mingled  lay 
In  love  and  sleep — but  when  the  morning  came 
The  lady  found  her  lover  dead  and  cold. 
Let  none  believe  that  God  in  mercy  gave 
That    stroke.      The    lady    died    not,    nor    grew 

wild. 
But  year  by  year  lived  on — in  truth  I  think 
Her  gentleness  and  patience  and  sad  smiles, 
And  that  she  did  not  die,  but  lived  to  tend 
Her  aged  father,  were  a  kind  of  madness, 
If  madness  'tis  to  be  unlike  the  world. 
For  but  to  see  her  were  to  read  the  tale 
Woven  by    some    subtlest   bard,   to    make    hard 

hearts 
Dissolve  aWay  in  wisdom-working  grief: — 
Her  eyelashes  were  torn  away  with  tears. 
Her  lips  and   cheeks  were   like   things  dead — so 

pale; 
Her  hands  were  thin,  and  through  their  wandering 

veins 
And  weak  articulations  might  be  seen 
Day's  ruddy  light.     The  tomb  of  thy  dead  self 
Which  one  vexed  ghost  inhabits,  night  and  day, 
Is  all,  lost  child,  that  now  remains  of  thee! 

"  Inheritor  of  more  than  earth  can  give,' 
Passionless  calm  and  silence  unreproved. 
Whether  the  dead  lind,  oh,  not  sleep !  but  rest. 
And  are  the  uncomplaining  things  they  seem, 
Or  live,  or  drop  in  the  deep  sea  of  Love ; 
Oh,  that  like  thine,  mine  epitaph  were — Peace !" 
This  was  the  only  moan  she  ever  made. 


HYMN  TO  INTELLECTUAL  BEAUTY. 

TiiK  awful  shadow  of  some  unseen  Power 
Floats  though  unseen  among  us  ;  visiting 
This  various  world  with  as  inconstant  wing 

As  summer  winds  that  creep  from  flower  to  flower: 

Like  moonbeams  that  behind  some  piny  mountain 
It  visits  with  inconstant  glance  [shower, 

Each  human  heart  and  coimtenancc ; 

Like  hues  and  harmonies  of  evening. 

Like  clouds  in  starlight  widely  spread, 

Like  memoiy  of  music  fled. 

Like  aught  that  for  its  grace  may  be 

Dear,  and  yet  dearer  for  its  mysteiy. • 

Sfiirit  of  Beauty,  tliat  dost  consecrate 

With  thine  own  hues  all  thou  dost  shine  upon 
Of  human  thought  or  form,  where  art  thou  gone  ] 

Why  dost  thou  pass  away  and  leave  our  state. 

This  dim  vast  vale  of  tears,  vacant  and  desolate  T 
Ask  why  the  sunlight  not  for  ever 
Weaves  rainbows  o'er  yon  mountain  river; 

Why  aught  should  fail  and  fade  that  once  is  shown; 
Why  fear  and  dream  and  death  and  birth 
Cast  on  the  daylight  of  this  earth 
Such  gloom ;  why  man  hath  such  a  scope 

For  love  and  hate,  despondency  and  hope  ; 

No  voice  from  some  sublimer  world  hath  ever 
To  sage  or  poet  these  responses  given : 
Therefore  the  names  of  Demon,  Ghost,  and 
Heaven, 

Remain  the  records  of  their  vain  endeavour ; 

Frail  spells,  whose  uttered  charm  might  not  avail 
From  all  we  hear  and  all  we  see,  [to  sever. 
Doubt,  chance,  and  mutability. 

Thy  light  alone,  like  mist  o'er  nio.untains  driven, 
Or  music  by  the  night  wind  sent 
Through  strings  of  some  still  instrument, 

Or  moonlight  on  a  midnight  stream, 

Gives  grace  and  truth  to  hfe's  unquiet  dream. 

Love,  Hope,  and  Self-esteem,  like  clouds  depart 

And  come,  for  some  uncertain  moments  lent. 

Man  were  immortal  and  omnipotent. 
Didst  thou,  unknown  and  awful  as  thou  art. 
Keep  with  thy  glorious  train  firm  state  within  his 

Thou  messenger  of  sympathies  [heart. 

That  wax  and  wane  in  lovers'  eves; 
Thou,  that  to  human  thought  art  nourishment, 

Like  darkness  to  a  dying  flame  ! 

Depart  not  as  thy  shadow  came : 

Depart  not,  lest  the  grave  should  be, 

Like  life  and  fear,  a  dark  reality. 
While  yet  a  boy  I  sought  for  ghosts,  and  sped 

Through  many  a  listening  chamber,  cave,  and 
ruin,  '^ 

And  starlight  wood,  with  fearful  steps  pursuing 
Hopes  of  high  talk  with  the  departed  dead. 


220 


POEMS   WRITTEN    IN    1816. 


I  called  on  poisonous  names  with  which  our  youth 

I  was  not  heard,  I  saw  them  not;        [is  fed  : 

When  musing  deeply  on  the  lot 
Of  life,  at  that  sweet  time  when  winds  are  wooing 

All  vital  things  that  wake  to  hring 

News  of  birds  and  blossoming, 

Sudden,  thy  shadow  fell  on  me ; 
I  shrieked,  and  clasped  my  hands  in  ecstacy ! 

r  vowed  that  I  would  dedicate  my  powers 

To  thee  and  thine :  have  I  not  kept  the  vowl 
With  beating  heart  and  streaming  eyes,  even 

I  call  the  phantoms  of  a  thousand  hours  [now 

Each  from  his  voiceless  grave :  they  have  in  visioncd 
Of  studious  zeal  or  love's  delight  [bowers 
Outwatched  with  me  the  envious  night : 

They  know  that  never  joy  illumed  my  brow, 
Unlinked  with  hope  that  thou  wouldst  free 
This  world  from  its  dark  slavery, 
That  thou,  0  awful  Lovelisess, 

Wouldst  give  whate'er  these  words  cannot  express. 

The  day  becomes  more  solemn  and  serene 
When  noon  is  past :  there  is  a  harmony 
In  autumn,  and  a  lustre  in  its  sky, 

Which  through  the  summer  is  not  heard  nor  seen, 

As  if  it  could  not  be,  as  if  it  had  not  been  ! 
Thus  let  thy  power,  which  like  the  truth 
Of  nature  on  my  passive  youth 

Descended,  to  my  onward  life  supply 
Its  calm,  to  one  who  worships  thee, 
And  every  form  containing  thee, 
Whom,  Spirit  fair,  thy  spells  did  bind 

To  fear  himself,  and  love  all  human  kind. 


MONT  BLANC. 


LISES    WniTTEX    IN    THE    VALE    OF    CHAJIOtJSI. 


The  everlasting  universe  of  things 

Flows  through  the  mind,  and  rolls  its  rapid  waves, 

Nowdark — now  glittering — nowreflecting  gloom — 

Now  lending  splendour,  where  from  secret  springs 

The  source  of  human  thought  its  tribute  brings 

Of  waters, — with  a  sound  but  half  its  own, 

Such  as  a  feeble  brook  will  oft  assume 

In  the  wild  woods,  among  the  mountains  lone, 

Where  waterfalls  around  it  leap  for  ever, 

Where  woods  and  winds  contend,  and  a  vast  river 

Over  its  rocks  ceaselessly  bursts  and  raves. 


Thus  thou.  Ravine  of  Arve — dark,  deep  Ravine — 
Thou  many-coloured,  manj'-voiced  vale, 
Over  whose  pines  and  crags  and  caverns  sail 
Fast  clouds,  shadows,  and  sunbeams ;  awful  scene, 
Where  Power  in  likeness  of  the  Arve  comes  down 
From  the  ice-gulfs  that  gird  his  secret  throne, 
Bursting  through  these  dark  mountains   Uke  the 

flame 
Of  lightning  through  the  tempest: — thou  dost  lie, 
The  giant  brood  of  pines  around  thee  clinging, 


Children  of  elder  time,  in  whose  devotion, 

The  chainlcss  winds  still  come  and  ever  came 

To  drink  their  odours,  and  their  mighty  swinging 

To  hear — an  old  and  solemn  harmony  : 

Thine  earthly  rainbows  stretched  across  the  sweep 

Of  the  etherial  waterfall,  whose  veil 

Robes  some  unsculptured  image  ;  the  strange  sleep 

Which,  when  the  voices  of  the  desert  fail, 

Wraps  all  in  its  own  deep  eternity  ; — 

Thy  caverns  echoing  to  the  Ar\'e's  commotion 

A  loud,  lone  sound,  no  other  sound  can  tame  ; 

Thou  art  pervaded  with  that  ceaseless  motion, 

Thou  art  the  path  of  that  unresting  sound — • 

Dizzy  Ravine !  and  when  I  gaze  on  thee, 

I  seem  as  in  a  trance  sublime  and  strange 

To  muse  on  my  own  separate  fantasy. 

My  own,  my  human  mind,  which  passively 

Now  renders  and  receives  fast  influcncings, 

Holding  an  unremitting  interchange 

With  the  clear  universe  of  things  around ; 

One  legion  of  wild  thoughts,  whose  wandering  wings 

Now  float  above  thy  darkness,  and  now  rest 

Where  that  or  thou  art  no  unbidden  guest, 

In  the  still  cave  of  the  witch  Poesy, 

Seeking  among  the  shadows  that  pass  by 

Ghosts  of  all  things  that  are,  some  shade  of  thee, 

Some  ])hantom,  some  faint  image  ;  till  the  breast 

From  which  they  fled  recalls  them,  thou  art  there ! 


Some  say  that  gleams  of  a  remoter  world 

Visit  the  soul  in  sleep, — that  death  is  slumber. 

And  that  its  shapes  the  busy  thoughts  outnumber 

Of  those  who  wake  and  live.     I  look  on  high  ; 

Has  some  unknown  omnipotence  unfurled 

The  veil  of  life  and  death  1   or  do  I  lie 

In  dream,  and  does  the  mightier  world  of  sleep 

Speed  far  around  and  inaccessibly 

Its  circles  !   For  the  very  spirit  fails. 

Driven  like  a  homeless  cloud  from  steep  to  steep 

That  vanishes  among  the  viewless  gales  ! 

Far,  far  above,  piercing  the  infinite  sky, 

Mont  Blanc  appears, — still,  snowy,  and  serene — 

Its  subject  mountains  their  unearthly  forms 

Pile  around  it,  ice  and  rock  ;  broad  vales  between 

Of  frozen  floods,  unfathomable  deeps, 

Blue  as  the  overhanging  heaven,  that  spread 

And  wind  among  the  accumulated  steeps; 

A  desert  peopled  by  the  storms  alone, 

Save  when  the  eagle  brings  some  hunter's  bone. 

And  the  wolf  tracks  her  there — how  hideously 

Its  shajjcs  are  heaped  around  !  rude,  bare,  and  high, 

Ghastly,  and  scarred,  and  riven. — Is  this  the  scene 

Where  the  old  Earthquake-demon  taught  her  young 

Ruin  ]     Were  these  her  toys  1  or  did  a  sea 

Of  fire  envolope  once  this  silent  snow] 

None  can  reply — all  seems  eternal  now. 

The  wilderness  has  a  mysterious  tongue 

Which  teaches  awful  doubt,  or  faith  so  mild, 

So  solemn,  so  serene,  that  man  may  be 

But  for  such  faith  with  nature  reconciled ; 

Thou  hast  a  voice,  great  Mountain,  to  repeal 

Large  codes  of  fraud  and  wo;  not  understood, 

By  all,  but  which  tlie  wise,  and  great,  and  good, 

Interpret  or  make  felt,  or  deeply  feel. 


EDITOR'S  NOTE  ON  POEMS  OF  18  16. 


221 


The  fields;,  the  lakes,  the  forests,  and  the  streams, 

Ocean,  and  all  the  living  thinRs  that  dwell 

Within  tile  d;edal  earth ;  lightnine;  and  rain, 

Eartli([iiai<e,  and  liery  flood,  and  hurricane, 

The  torpor  of  the  year  when  feeble  dreams 

Visit  the  hidden  buds,  or  dreamless  sleep 

Holds  every  future  leaf  and  flower, — the  bouiid 

With  which  from  that  detested  trance  they  leap; 

The  works  and  ways  of  man  their  death  and  birth, 

And  that  of  him,  and  all  that  his  may  be  ; 

All  things  that  move  and  breathe  with  toil  and  sound 

Are  born  and  die,  revolve,  subside,  and  swell. 

Power  dwells  apart  in  its  tranquillity, 

Remote,  serene,  and  inaccessible  : 

And  Ihis,  the  naked  countenance  of  earth. 

On  which  I  gaze,  even  these  primeval  mountains. 

Teach  the  adverting  mind.     The  glaciers  creep. 

Like  snakes  that  watch  their  prey,  from  their  far 

fountains. 
Slowly  rolling  on  ;  there,  many  a  precipice 
Frost  and  the  Sun  in  scorn  of  mortal  power 
Have  piled — dome,  pyramid,  and  pinnacle,    ■ 
A  city  of  death  distinct  with  many  a  tower 
And  wall  impregnable  of  beaming  ice. 
Yet  not  a  city,  but  a  flood  of  ruin 
Is  there,  that  from  the  boundaries  of  the  sky 
Rolls  its  perpetual  stream  ;  vast  pines  are  strewing 
Its  destined  path,  or  in  the  mangled  soil        [down 
Branchless  and  shattered  stand  ;   the  rocks,  drawn 
From  3^on  remotest  waste,  have  overthrown 
The  limits  of  the  dead  and  living  world, 
Never  to  be  reclaimed.     The  dwelling-place 


Of  insects,  beasts,  and  birds,  becomes  ite  spoil ;. 
Their  food  and  their  retreat  for  ever  gone. 
So  much  of  life  and  joy  is  lost.     The;  race 
Of  man  flies  far  in  dread  ;  his  work  and  dwelling 
Vanish,  like  smoke  before  the  tem])est's  stream. 
And  their  place  is  not  known.     Below,  vast  caves 
Shine  in  the  rushing  torrent's  restless  gleam, 
Which  from  those  secret  chasms  in  tumult  welling 
Meet  in  the  Vale,  and  one  majestic  River, 
The  breath  and  blood  of  distant  lands,  for  ever 
Rolls  its  loud  waters  to  the  ocean  waves. 
Breathes  its  swift  vapours  to  the  circhng  air. 


Mont  Blanc  yet   gleams  on  high : — the  power  is 
The  still  and  solemn  power  of  many  sights    [there, 
And  many  sounds,  and  much  of  life  and  death. 
In  the  calm  darkness  of  the  moonless  nights. 
In  the  lone  glare  of  day,  the  snows  descend 
Upon  that  Mountain  ;  none  beholds  them  there, 
Nor  when  th«  flakes  burn  in  the  sinking  sun,   [tend 
Or  the  starbeamsdart  through  them  : — Winds  con- 
Silently  there,  and  heap  the  snow,  with  breath 
Rajjid  and  strong,  but  silently  !  Its  home 
The  voiceless  lightning  in  these  solitudes 
Keeps  innocently,  and  like  vapour  broods 
Over  the  snow.     The  secret  strength  of  things. 
Which  governs  thought,  and  to  the  infinite  dome 
Of  heaven  is  as  a  law,  inhabits  thee ! 
And  what  were  thou,  and  earth,  and  stars,  and  sea, 
If  to  the  human  mind's  imaginings 
Silence  and  solitude  were  vacancy  1 
Switzerland,  June  23,  1816. 


NOTE  ON  POEMS  OF  1816. 


BY  THE  EDITOR. 


SaELLEY  wrote  little  during  this  year.  The 
Poem  entitled  the  "  Sunset"  was  written  in  the 
spring  of  the  year,  while  still  residing  at  Bi.shops- 
gate.  He  spent  the  summer  on  the  shores  of  the 
Lake  of  Geneva.  "The  Hymn  to  Intellectual 
Beauty"  was  conceived  during  his  voyage  round 
the  lake  with  Lord  Byron.  He  occupied  himself 
during  this  voyage,  by  reading  the  NouvcUe  Htlojse 
for  the  fir.st  time.  The  reading  it  on  the  very  spot 
where  the  scenes  are  laid,  added  to  the  interest ; 
and  he  was  at  once  surprised  and  charmed  by  the 
passionate  eloq^ence  and  earnest  enthralling  in- 
terest that  pervades  this  work.  There  was  some- 
thing in  the  character  of  Saint-Preux,  in  his  abne- 
gation of  self,  and  in  the  worship  he  paid  to  Love, 
that  coincided  with  Shelley's  own  disposition ;  and, 
though  diflering  in  many  of  the  views,  and  shocked 
by  others,  yet  the  effect  of  the  whole  was  fascinat- 
ing and  delightful. 


"  Mont  Blanc"  was  inspired  by  a  view  of  that 
mountain  and  its  surrounding  peaks  and  valleys, 
as  he  lingered  on  the  Bridge  of  Krve  on  his  way 
througli  the  Valley  of  Chamouni.  Shelley  makes 
the  following  mention  of  this  poem  in  his  pubUca- 
tion  of  the  History  of  Six  Weeks'  Tour,  and  Let- 
ters from  Switzerland : 

"  The  poem  entitled  '  Mont  Blanc,'  is  written 
by  the  author  of  the  two  letters  from  Chamouni 
and  Vevai.  It  was  composed  under  the  imme- 
diate impression  of  the  deep  and  powcrfiil  feelings 
excited  by  the  objects  wliich  it  attempts  to  de- 
scribe ;  and  as  an  undiscipUned  overflowing  of 
the  soul,  rests  its  claim  to  approbation  on  an 
attempt  to  imitate  the  untameable  wildness  and 
inaccessible  solemnity  from  which  those  feelings 
sprang." 

This  was  an  eventful  year,  and  less  time  was 


222 


EDITOR'S    NOTE    ON    POEMS    OF    18  16. 


given  to  study  than  usiwl.  In  the  list  of  his  read- 
ing I  find,  in  Greek:  Theocritus,  the  Prometheus 
of  .Esdn-lus,  several  of  Plutarch's  Lives,  and  the 
works  of  Lucian.  In  I-atin:  Lucretius,  PHny's 
Letters,  the  Annals  and  Germany  of  Tacitus.  In 
French :  tlie  History  of  the  French  Revolution, 
by  Lacretelle.  He  read  for  the  first  time,  this  year, 
Montaigne's  Essays,  and  regarded  them  ever  after 


as  one  of  the  most  delightful  and  instructive  books 
in  the  world.  The  Ust  is  scanty  in  English  works 
— Locke's  Essay,  Political  Justice,  and  Coleridge's 
Lay  Sermon,  form  nearly  the  whole.  It  was  his 
frequent  habit  to  read  aloud  to  mc  in  the  evening ; 
in  this  way  we  read,  this  year,  the  New  Testa- 
ment, Paradise  Lost,  Spenser's  Fairy  Queen,  and 
Don  Quixote. 


POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  MDCCCXYII. 


PRINCE  ATHANASE. 


A    FRAGMENT. 


There  was  a  youth,  who,  as  with  toil  and  travel, 
Had  grown  quite  weak  and  gray  before  his  time ; 
Nor  any  could  the  restless  griefs  unravel 

Which    hurned    within    him,    withering    up   his 

prime 
And  goading  him,  like  fiends,  from  land  to  land. 
Not  his  the  load  of  any  secret  crime, 

For  nought  of  ill  liis  heart  could  understand. 
But  pity  and  wild  sorrow  for  the  same ; 
Not  his  the  thirst  for  glory  or  command. 

Baffled  with  blast  of  hope-consuming  shame  ; 
Nor  evil  joys  which  fire  the  vulgar  breast, 
And  quench  in  speedy  smoke  its  feeble  flame, 

Had  left  within  his  soul  the  dark  unrest: 
Nor  what  religion  fables  of  the  grave 
Feared  he, — Piiilosophy's  accepted  guest. 

For  none  than  he  a  purer  heart  could  have, 

Or  that  loved  good  more  for  itself  alone  ; 

Of  nought  in  heaven  or  earth  was  he  the  slave. 

What  sorrow,  strange,  and  shadowy,  and  unknown. 
Sent  him,  a  hopeless  wanderer,  through  mankind  1 — 
If  with  a  human  sadness  he  did  groan, 

He  had  a  gentle  yet  aspiring  mind  ; 
Just,  innocent,  with  varied  learnitig  fed  ; 
And  such  a  glorious  consolation  find 

In  others'  joy,  when  all  their  own  is  dead  : 
He  loved,  and  laboured  for  his  kind  in  grief 
And  yet,  unlike  all  others,  it  is  said 

That  from  such  toil  he  never  found  relief. 
Although  a  child  of  fortune  and  of  power, 
Of  an  ancestral  name  the  orphan  chief. 

His  soul  had  wedded  wisdom,  and  her  dower 
Is  love  and  justice,  clothed  in  which  he  sate 
Apart  from  men,  as  in  a  lonely  tower, 

Pitying  the  tumult  of  their  dark  estate. — 

Yet  even  in  youth  did  he  not  e'er  abuse 

The  strength  of  wealth  or  thought,  to  consecrate 

Those  false  opinions  which  the  harsh  rich  use 
To  blind  the  world  they  famish  for  their  pride  ; 
N  or  did  he  hold  from  any  man  his  dues, 


But,  like  a  steward  in  honest  dealings  tried, 
With  those  who  toiled  and  wept,  the  poor  and  wise, 
His  riches  and  his  cares  he  did  divide. 

Fearless  he  was,  and  scorning  all  disguise. 
What  he  dared  do  or  think,  though  men  might  start. 
He  spoke  with  mild  yet  unavcrted  eyes  ; 

Liberal  he  was  of  soul,  and  frank  of  heart. 
And  to  his  many  friends — all  loved  him  well — 
Whate'er  he  knew  or  felt  he  would  impart. 

If  words  he  found  those  inmost  thoughts  to  tell ; 
If  not,  he  smiled  or  wept ;  and  his  weak  foes. 
He  neither  spurned  nor  hated — ^though  with  fell 

And  mortal  hate  their  thousand  voices  rose, 
They  past  like  aimless  arrows  from  his  ear. — 
Nor  did  his  heart  or  mind  its  portal  close 

To  those,  or  them,  or  any,  whom  life's  sphere 
May  comprehend  within  its  wide  array. 
What  sadness  made  that  vernal  spirit  sere  ] 

He  knew  not.     Though  his  life  day  afler  day, 
Was  failing,  like  an  unreplenishcd  stream. 
Though  in  his  eyes  a  cloud  and  burden  lay. 

Through  which  his  soul,  like  Vesper's  serene  beam 
Piercing  the  chasms  of  ever  rising  clouds. 
Shone,  softly  burning ;  though  his  lips  d'lA  seem 

Like  reeds  which  quiver  in  impetuous  floods ; 
And  through  his  sleep,  and  o'er  each  waking  hour, 
Thoughts  after  thoughts,  unresting  multitudes, 

Were  driven  within  him  by  some  secret  power, 
Which  bade  them  blaze,  and  live,  and  roll  afar, 
Like  lights  and  sounds,  from  haunted  tower  to  tower. 

O'er  castled  mountains  borne,  when  tempest's  war 

Is  levied  by  the  night-contending  winds, 

And  the  pale  dalesmen  watch  with  eager  ear  ; — 

Though  such  were  in  his  spirit,  as  the  fiend% 
Which  wake  and  feed  on  everli^-ing  wo, — 
What  was  this  grief,  which  ne'er  in  other  minds 

A  mirror  found, — he  knew  not — none  could  know  ; 
But  on  whoe'er  might  question  him  he  turned 
The  light  of  his  frank  eyes,  as  if  to  show 

He  knew  not  of  the  grief  vrithin  that  burned. 
But  asked  forbearance  with  a  mournful  look; 
Or  sjjokc  in  words  from  which  none  ever  learned 

The  cause  of  his  disquietude  ;  or  shook 

With  spasms  of  silent  passion ;  or  turned  pale : 

So  that  his  friends  soon  rarely  undertook 

223 


224 


POEMS    WRITTEN    IN    18  17. 


To  stir  his  secret  pain  witliout  avail ; — ■ 

For  all  who  knew  and  loved  him  then  perceived 

That  there  was  drawn  an  adamantine  veil 

Between  his  heart  and  mind, — hoth  unrelieved 
Wrought  in  his  brain  and  bosom  separate  strife. 
Some  said  that  he  was  mad,  others  believed 

That  memories  of  an  antenatal  hfe 

Made  this,  where  now  he  dwelt,  a  penal  hell : 

And  others  said  that  such  mysterious  grief 

From  God's  displeasure,  like  a  darkness,  fell 
On  souls  like  his,  which  owned  no  higher  law 
Than  love  ;  love  calm,  steadfast  invincible 

By  mortal  fear  or  supernatural  awe ; 

And  others, — " 'Tis  the  shadow  of  a  dream 

Which  the  veiled  ej-e  of  memory  never  saw 

"But  through  the  soul's  abyss,  like  some  dark 
stream 

Through  shattered  mines  and  caverns  under- 
ground 

Rolls,  shaking  its  fovmdations ;  and  no  beam 

"  Of  joy    may    rise,   but    it    is    quenched   and 

drowned 
In  the  dim  whirlpools  of  this  dream  obscure. 
Soon  its  exhausted  waters  will  have  found 

"  A  lair  of  rest  beneath  thy  spirit  pure,        , 
O  Athanase  ! — in  one  so  good  and  great, 
Evil  or  tumult  cannot  long  endure." 

So  spake  they  :  idly  of  another's  state 
Babbling  vain  words  and  fond  philosophy  : 
This  was  their  consolation  ;  such  debate 

Men  held  with  one  another ;  nor  did  he, 
Like  one  who  labours  with  a  Inmian  wo, 
Decline  this  talk ;  as  if  its  theme  might  be 

Another,  not  himself,  he  to  and  fro 
Questioned  and  canvassed  it  with  subtlest  wit ; 
And  none  but  those  who  loved  him   best  could 
know 

That  which  he  knew  not,  how  it  galled  and  bit 
His  weary  mind,  this  converse  vain  and  cold ; 
For  like  an  eyeless  nightmare  grief  did  sit 

Upon  his  being;  a  snake  which  fold  by  fold 
Pressed  out  the  life  of  life,  a  clinging  fiend 
Which  blenched  him  if  he  stirred  with  deadlier 

hold  ;— 
And  so  his  grief  remained — let  it  remain — untold.* 


»  The  Aiulinr  was  pursuing  a  fuller  developement  of 
the  ideal  character  of  Athanase,  when  it  struck  him 
that  in  an  attempt  at  extreme  refinement  and  analysis, 
his  conceptions  might  be  betrayed  into  the  assuming  a 
morbid  character.  The  reader  will  judge  whether  he 
is  a  loser  or  gainer  by  this  difference. — Author's  J^ote. 


FRAGMENTS' 


OF   PRINCE  ATHANASE. 

PART  II. 


FRAG.MF.NT  I. 

PnixcE  Athanase  had  one  beloved  friend, 

An  old,  old  man,  with  hair  of  silver  white,   [blend 

And  lips  where  heavenly  smiles  would  hang  and 

With  his  wise  words ;  and  eyes  whose  arrowy  light 
Shone  like  the  reflex  of  a  thousand  minds. 
He  was  the  last  whom  superstition's  blight 

Had  spared  intJreece — the  blight  that  cramps  and 

blinds, — 
And  in  his  olive  bower  at  (Enoe 
Had  sate  from  earliest  youth.     Like  one  who  finds 

A  fertile  island  in  the  barren  sea, 

One  mariner  who  has  .survived  his  mates 

Many  a  drear  month  in  a  great  ship — so  he 

With  soul-sustaining  songs,  and  sweet  debates 

Of  ancient  lore,  there  fed  his  lonely  being: 

"  The  mind  becomes  that  which  it  contemplates," — 

And  thus  Zonoras,  by  for  ever  seeitig 
Their  bright  creations,  grew  like  wisest  men ; 
And  when  he  heard  the  crash  of  nations  fleeing 

A  bloodier  power  than  ruled  thy  ruins  then, 

O  sacred  Hellas !  many  weary  years 

He  wandered,  tiU  the  path  of  Laian's  glen 

Was  grass-grown — and  the  unremembered  tears 
Were  dry  in  Laian  for  their  honoured  chief, 
Who  fell  in  Byzant,  pierced  by  Moslem  spears: — 

And  as  the  lady  looked  with  faitliful  grief 
From  lier  high  lattice  o'er  the  rugged  path, 
Where  she  once  saw  that  horseman  toil,  with  brief 

And  blighting  hope,  who  with  the  news  of  death 
Struck  body  and  soul  as  with  a  mortal  blight, 
She  saw  beneath  the  chestnuts,  far  beneath, 

*  The  idea  i^helley  had  formed  of  Prince  Athanase 
was  a  good  deal  modelled  on  Alastor.  In  the  first 
sketch  of  the  Poem  he  named  it  Pandemos  and  Urania. 
Athanase  seeks  through  the  world  the  One  whom  he 
may  love.  He  meets,  in  the  ship  in  which  he  is  em- 
barked, a  lady,  who  appears  to  him  to  embody  liis  ideal 
of  love  and  lieruily.  lint  she  proves  to  be  Pandemos, 
or  the  earthly  and  unworthy  Venus,  who,  after  disap- 
pointing his  cherished  dreams  and  hopes,  deserts  him. 
Atlianase,  crushed  by  sorrow,  pines  and  dies.  "On  liis 
deatlibed  the  lady,  who  can  really  reply  to  his  soul, 
comes  and  kisses  liis  lips," — The  Deathbed  of  Athanase. 
The  poet  describes  her — 

Her  hair  was  brown,  her  sphered  eyes  were  brown. 
And  in  their  dark  and  liquid  moisture  swam, 
Like  the  dim  orb  of  the  eclipsed  moon  ; 
Yet  when  the  spirit  flashed  beneath,  there  came 
The  light  from  them,  as  when  tears  of  delight 
Double  the  western  planet's  serene  frame. 

This  slender  note  is  all  we  have  to  aid  our  imagination 
in  shaping  out  the  form  of  the  poem,  such  as  its  author 
imaged. — M.  S. 


PRINCE    ATHANASE. 


225 


An  old  man  toilinfr  up,  a  wcar\'  wight ; 

And  soon  within  her  hospitahle  hall 

She  saw  his  white  hairs  ghttorins  in  the  light 

Of  the  wood  lire,  and  round  his  shoulders  fall, 
And  his  wan  visage  and  his  withered  mien, 
Yet  calm  and  gentle  and  majestical. 

And  Athanase,  her  child,  who  must  liave  been 
Then  three  years  old,  sate  opposite  and  gazed 
In  patient  silence. 


FRAGMENT  II. 

SrcH  was  Zonoras;  and  as  daylight  finds 
One  amaranth  glittering  on  the  path  of  frost, 
When  autumn  nights  have  nipt  all  weaker  kinds, 

Thus  through  his  age,  dark,  cOld,  and  tempest-tost. 
Shone  truth  upon  Zonoras ;  and  he  filled 
From  fountains  pure,  nigh  overgrown  and  lost, 

The  spirit  of  Prince  Athanase,  a  child. 
With  soul-sustaining  songs  of  ancient  lore 
And  philosophic  wisdom,  clear  and  mild. 

And  sweet  and  subtle  talk  now  evermore, 
The  pujul  and  the  master  shared  ;  until. 
Sharing  that  undiminishable  store. 

The  youth,  as  shadows  on  a  grassy  hill 
Outrun  the  winds  that  chase  them,  soon  outi-an 
His  teacher,  and  did  teach  with  native  skill 

Strange  truths  and  new  to  that  experienced  man. 
Still  they  were  friends,  as  few  have  ever  been 
Who  mark  the  exti-emes  of  life's  discordant  span. 

So  in  the  caverns  of  the  forest  green. 
Or  by  the  rocks  of  echoing  ocean  hoar, 
Zonoras  and  Prince  Athanase  were  seen 

By  summer  woodmen;  and  when  winter's  roar 
Sounded  o'er  earth  and  sea  its  blast  of  war, 
The  Balearic  fisher,  driven  from  shore, 

Hanging  upon  the  peaked  wave  afar. 

Then  saw  their  lamp  from  Laian's  turret  gleam, 

Piercing  the  stormy  darkness,  like  a  star 

Which  pours  beyond  the  sea  one  steadfast  beam, 
Whilst  all  the  constellations  of  the  sky      [seem — 
Seemed  reeling  through  the  storm;  they  did  but 

For,  lo !  the  wintry  clouds  are  all  gone  by. 

And  bright  Arcturus  through  yon  pines  is  glowing. 

And  far  o'er  southern  waves,  immovably 

Belted  Orion  hangs — ^warm  light  is  flowing 
From  the  young  moon  into  the  sunset's  chasm. — 
"  O  summer  eve  !  with  power  divine,  bestowing 

"  On  thine  own  bird  the  sweet  enthusiasm 
Wl\ich  overflows  in  notes  of  liquid  gladness, 
Filling  the  sky  like  light !     How  manv  a  spasm 
29 


«  Of  fevered  brains,  oppressed  with  grief  and  mad- 
Were  lulled  by  thee,  deliglitfiil  nightingale  !  [ness, 
And  these  soft  waves,  murmuring  a  gentle  sadness, 

"  And  the  far  sighings  of  yon  piny  dale 
Made  vocal  by  some  wind,  we  feel  not  here. — • 
I  bear  alone  what  nothing  may  avail 

"To  ligliten — a  strange  load  !'' — No  human  ear 
Heard  this  lament;  but  o'er  the  visage  wan 
Of  Athanase,  a  ruffling  atmosphere 

Of  dark  emotion,  a  swift  shadow  ran, 
Iiike  wind  upon  some  forest-bosomed  lake, 
Glassy  and  dark. — And  that  divme  old  man 

Beheld  his  mystic  friend's  whole  being  shake, 
Even  where  its  inmost  depths  were  gloomiest — 
And  with  a  calm  and  measured  voice  he  spake, 

And,  with  a  soft  and  equal  pressure,  prest 

That  cold  lean  hand : — "  Dost  thou  remember  yet 

When  the  curved  moon  then  lingering  in  the  west 

"  Paused,  in  yon  waves  her  mighty  horns  to  wet, 
How  in  those  beams  we  walked,  half  resting  on 

the  sea  ] 
'Tis  just  one  year — sure  thou  dost  not  forget — 

"  Then  Plato's  words  of  light  in  thee  and  me 
Lingered  like  moonlight  in  the  moonless  east, 
For  we  had  just  then  read — thy  memory 

"  Is  faithful  now — the  story  of  the  feast ; 

And  Agathon  and  Diotima  seemed 

From  death  and  dark  forgetfulness  released." 


-   •  .  FRAGMENT  III. 

'TwAs  at  the  season  when  the  Earth  upsprings 
From  slumber,  as  a  sphered  angel's  child. 
Shadowing  its  eyes  with  green  and  golden  wings. 

Stands  up  before  its  mother  bright  and  mild, 
Of  whose  soft  voice  the  air  expectant  seems — 
So  stood  before  the  sun,  which  shone  and  smiled 

To  see  it  rise  thus  joyous  from  its  dreams. 
The  fresh  and  radiant  Earth.     The  hoary  grove 
Waxed  green — and  flowers  burst  forth  like  starry 
beams ; — 

The  grass  in  the  warm  sun  did  start  and  move, 
And  sea-buds  burst  beneath  the  waves  serene : — 
How  many  a  one,  though  none  be  near  to  love. 

Loves  then  the  shade  of  his  own  soul,  half  seen 
In  any  mirror — or  tlie  spring's  young  minions. 
The  winged  leaves  amid  the  copses  green ; — 

How  many  a  spirit  then  puts  on  the  pinions 
Of  fancy,  and  outstrips  the  lagiring  blast. 
xVnd  his  own  steps — and  over  wide  dominions 


226 


POEMS    WRITTEN    IN    18  17. 


Sweeps  in  his  dream-drawn  cliariot,  far  and  fast, 
More  fleet  than  storms — the  wide  world  shrinks 
When  winter  and  despondency  are  past,     [below, 

'Twas  at  this  season  that  Prince  Atlianase 
Pass'd  the  white  Alps — those  eagie-baftting  moun- 
tains 
Slept  in  their  shrouds  of  snow  ; — beside  the  ways 

The  waterfalls  were  voiceless — for  their  fountains 
Were  changed  to  mines  of  surdess  crystal  now, 
Or  by  the  curdling  winds — whose  brazen  wings, 

Which  clanged  along  the  mountain's  marble  brow, 
Warped  into  adamantine  fretwork,  hung 
And  tilled  with  frozen  liglit  the  chasm  below. 


FRAGMENT  IV. 

Thou  art  the  wine  whose  drunkenness  is  all 
We  can  desire,  O  Love  I  and  happy  souls. 
Ere  from  thy  vine  the  leaves  of  autumn  fall, 

Catch  thee,  and  feed  from  their  o'erflowing  bowls 
Thousands  who  thirst  for  thy  ambrosial  dew ; 
Thou  art  the  radiance  which  where  ocean  rolls 

Investest  it ;  and  when  the  heavens  are  blue 
Thou  fillest  them ;  and  when  the  earth  is  fair, 
The  shadow  of  thy  moving  wings  imbue 

Its  deserts  and  its  mountains,  till  they  wear 
Beauty  like  some  bright  robe ; — thou  ever  soarest 
Among  the  towers  of  men,  and  as  soft  air 

In  spring,  which  moves  the  unawakened  forest, 
Clothing  with  leaves  its  branches  bare  and  bleak, 
Thou  floatest  among  men ;  and  aye  implorest 

That  which  from  thee  they  should  implore : — the 

weak 
Alone  kneel  to  thee,  offering  up  the  hearts 
The  strong  have  .broken — ^yet  where  shall  any  seek 

A  garment  whom  thou  clothest  not  1 
Marlow,  1817. 


MARIANNE'S  DREAM. 


A  PAT.F,  dream  came  to  a  I^ady  fair, 
And  said,  A  boon,  a  boon,  I  pray  ! 

I  know  the  secrets  of  the  air. 

And  things  are  lost  in  the  glare  of  day, 

Which  I  can  make  the  sleeping  see, 

If  they  will  put  their  trust  in  me. 

And  thou  shalt  know  of  things  unknown, 
If  thou  wilt  let  me  rest  between 

The  veiny  lids,  whose  fringe  is  thrown 
Over  thine  e3es  so  dark  and  sheen: 

And  half  in  hope,  and  half  in  fright, 

The  Lady  closed  her  eyes  so  bright. 


At  first  all  deadly  shapes  were  driven 

Tumultuously  across  her  sleep. 
And  o'er  the  vast  cojie  of  bending  heaven 

All  ghastly-visaged  clouds  did  sweej); 
And  the  Lady  ever  looked  to  spy 
If  the  gold  sun  shone  forth  on  high. 

And  as  towards  the  east  she  turned, 

She  saw  aloft  in  the  morning  air. 
Which  now  with  hues  of  sunrise  burned, 

A  great  black  Anchor  rising  there; 
And  wherever  the  Lady  turned  her  eyes 
It  hurig  before  her  hi  the  skies. 

The  sky  was  blue  as  the  summer  sea, 
The  depths  were  cloudless  over  head. 

The  air  was  calm  as  it  could  be. 

There  was  no  sight  or  sound  of  dread, 

But  that  black  Anchor  floating  still 

Over  the  piny  eastern  hill. 

The  Lady  grew  sick  with  a  weight  of  fear. 

To  see  that  Anchor  ever  hanging, 
And  veiled  her  eyes ;  she  then  did  hear 

The  sound  as  of  a  dim  low  clanging. 
And  looked  abroad  if  she  might  know 
Was  it  aught  else,  or  but  the  flow 
Of  the  blood  in  her  own  veins,  to  and  fro. 

There  was  a  mist  in  the  sunless  air. 

Which  shook  as  it  were  with  an  earthquake's 
But  the  very  weeds  that  blossomed  there      [shock, 

Were  moveless,  and  each  mighty  rock 
Stood  on  its  basis  steadfastly  ; 
The  Anchor  was  seen  no  more  on  high. 

But  piled  around  with  summits  hid 

In  lines  of  cloud  at  intervals. 
Stood  many  a  mountain  pyramid 

Among  whose  everlasting  walls 
Two  mighty  cities  shone,  and  ever 
Through  the  red  mist  their  domes  did  quiver. 

On  two  dread  mountains,  from  whose  crest, 
Might  seem,  the  eagle  for  her  brood 

Would  ne'er  have  hung  her  dizzy  nest 
Those  tower-encircled  cities  stood. 

A  vision  strange  such  towers  to  see. 

Sculptured  and  wrought  so  gorgeously, 

Where  human  art  could  never  be. 

And  columns  framed  of  marble  white. 

And  giant  fanes,  dome  over  dome 
Piled,  and  triumphant  gates,  all  bright 

With  workmanship,  wiiich  could  not  come 
From  touch  of  mortal  instrument. 
Shot  o'er  the  vales,  or  lustre  lent 
From  its  own  shapes  magnificent. 

But  still  the  Ijady  heard  that  clang 

Filling  the  wide  air  far  away  ;  • 
And  still  the  mist  whose  light  did  hang 

Among  the  mountains  shook  alway. 
So  that  the  Lady's  heart  boat  fast, 
As  half  in  joy  and  half  aghast. 
On  those  high  domes  her  look  she  cast. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


227 


Suililcn  from  out  that  city  sprung 

A  lii^ht  that  niiulc  the  cartli  grow  red ; 

Two  flames  that  each  with  quivering  tongue 
Licked  its  high  domes,  and  overhead 

Among  those  mighty  towers  and  fanes 

Dropped  tire,  as  a  volcano  rains 

Its  sulphurous  ruin  on  the  plains. 

And  hark  !  a  rush,  as  if  the  deep 

Had  burst  its  bonds;  she  looked  behind 

And  saw  over  tiie  western  steep 
A  raging  flood  descend,  and  wind 

Through  that  wide  vale  :  she  felt  no  fear, 
But  said  within  herself,  'Tis  clear 

These  towers  arc  Nature's  own,  and  she 

To  save  them  has  sent  forth  the  sea. 

And  now  those  raging  billows  came 

Where  that  fair  Lady  sate,  and  she 
Was  borne  towards  the  showering  flame 

By  the  wild  waves  heaped  tumultuously, 
And,  on  a  little  plank,  the  flow 
Of  the  whirlpool  bore  her  to  and  fro. 

The  waves  were  fiercely  vomited 
From  every  tower  and  every  dome, 

And  dreary  light  did  widely  shed 

O'er  that  vast  flood's  suspended  foam. 

Beneath  the  smoke  which  hung  its  night 

On  the  stained  cope  of  heaven's  light. 

The  plank  whereon  that  Lady  sate 

Was  driven  through  the  chasms,  about  and  about, 
Between  the  peaks  so  desolate 

Of  the  drowning  mountain,  in  and  out, 
As  the  thistle-beard  on  a  whirlwind  sails — 
Mobile  the  flood  was  filUng  those  hollow  vales. 

At  last  her  plank  an  eddy  crost. 

And  bore  her  to  the  city's  wall. 
Which  now  the  flood  had  reached  almost ; 

It  might  the  stoutest  heart  appal 
To  hear  the  fire  roar  and  hiss 
Through  the  domes  of  those  mighty  palaces. 

The  eddy  whirled  her  round  and  round 
Before  a  gorgeous  gate,  which  stood 

Piercing  the  clouds  of  smoke  which  bound 
Its  aery  arch  with  light  like  blood ; 

She  looked  on  that  gate  of  marble  clear 

With  wonder  that  extingioished  fear: 

For  it  was  filled  with  sculptures  rarest. 
Of  tonus  most  beautiful  and  strange. 

Like  nothing  human,  but  the  fairest 
Of  winged  shapes,  whose  legions  range 

ThrouG^hout  the  .sleep  of  those  who  are. 

Like  this  same  Lady,  good  and  fair. 

And  as  she  looked,  still  lovelier  grew 
Those  marble  forms ; — the  sculptor  sure 

Was  a  strong  sjiirit,  and  the  hue 
Of  his  own  mind  did  there  endure 

After  the  touch,  whose  power  had  braided 

Such  grace,  was  in  some  sad  change  faded. 


She  looked,  the  flames  were  dim,  the  flood 
Grew  tran(iuil  as  a  woodland  river 

Winding  through  hills  in  solitude ; 

Those  marble  shapes  then  seemed  to  quiver, 

And  their  fair  limlis  to  float  in  motion, 

Like  weeds  unfolding  hi  the  ocean. 

And  their  lips  moved ;  one  seemed  to  speak, 
W^hen  suddenly  the  mountain  crackt. 

And  through  the  chasm  the  floor  did  break 
With  an  earth-uplifting  cataract : 

The  statues  gave  a  joyous  scream. 

And  on  its  wings  the  pale  thin  dream 

Lifted  the  Lady  from  the  stream. 

The  dizzy  flight  of  that  phantom  pale 
Waked  the  fair  Lady  from  her  sleep, 

And  she  arose,  while  from  the  veil 

Of  her  dark  eyes  the  dream  did  creep; 

And  she  walked  about  as  one  who  knew 

That  sleep  has  sights  as  clear  and  true 

As  any  waking  eyes  can  view. 
Maulow,  1S17. 


TO  CONSTANTIA 

SINGIXG. 


Thus  to  be  lost  and  thus  to  sink  and  die. 

Perchance    were    death    indeed  ! — Constantis, 
turn ! 
In  thy  dark  eyes  a  power  like  light  doth  lie. 

Even  though  the  sounds  which  were  thy  voice, 
which  burn 
Between  thy  lips,  are  laid  to  sleep ;  [is  yet. 

Within  thy  breath,  and  on  thy  hair,  like  odour  it 
And  from  thy  touch  like  fire  doth  leap. 

Even  while  I  write,  my  burning  cheeks  are  wet, 

Alas,  that  the  torn  heart  can  bleed,  hut  not  forget ! 
A  breathless  awe,  like  the  swift  change 

Unseen  but  felt  in  youthful  slumbers. 
Wild,  sweet,  but  uncommunicably  strange, 

Thou  breathest  now  in  fast  ascending  numbers. 
The  cope  of  heaven  seems  rent  and  cloven 

By  the  enchantment  of  thy  strain. 
And  on  my  shoulders  wings  are  woven. 

To  follow  its  sublime  career. 
Beyond  the  mighty  moons  that  wane 

TIpon  the  verge  of  nature's  utmost  sphere, 

Till   the  world's  shadowy  walls  are    past  and 
disappear. 

Her  voice  is  hovering  o'er  my  soul — it  lingers 
O'ershadowing  it  with  soft  and  lulling  wings. 

The  blood  and  life  within  those  snowy  fingers 
Teach  witchcraft  to  the  instrumental  strings. 

My  brain  is  wild,  my  breath  comes  quick — 
The  blood  is  listening  in  my  frame. 

And  thronging  shadows,  fast  and  thick. 
Fall  on  my  overflowing  eyes; 

My  heart  is  quivering  like  a  flame ; 

As  morning  dew,  that  in  the  sunbeam  dies, 
I  am  dissolved  in  these  consuming  ecstacics. 


228 


POEMS    WRITTEN    IN    18  17. 


I  have  no  life,  Constantia,  now,  but  thee, 

Whilst,  like  the  vvorld-surrouiKiin!^  air,  thy  song 
Flows  on,  and  fills  all  tliinirs  with  nielody. — • 

Now  is  thy  voice  a  teinjiest  swift  and  strong, 
On  which,  like  one  in  trance  upborne. 

Secure  o'er  rocks  and  waves  I  sweep, 
Rejoicing  like  a  cloud  of  morn. 

Now  'tis  the  breath  of  summer  night, 
\^'hich,  when  the  starry  waters  sleep. 

Round    western    isles,   with    incense-blossoms 
brighl, 

Lingering,  suspends  my  soul  in  its  voluptuous 
fliiiht.    ■ 


TO  CONSTANTIA. 


The  rose  that  drinks  the  fountain  dew 

In  the  pleasant  air  of  noon. 
Grows  pale  and  blue  with  altered  hue — 

In  the  gaze  of  the  nightly  moon ; 
For  the  planet  of  frost,  so  cold  and  bright, 
Makes  it  wan  with  her  borrowed  hght. 

Such  is  my  heart — roses  are  fair. 

And  that  at  best  a  withered  blossom ; 

But  thy  false  care  did  idly  wear 

Its  withered  leaves  in  a  fliithless  bosom! 

And  fed  with  love,  like  air  and  dew 

Its  growth 


DEATH. 


Thet  die — the  dead  return  not — Misery 

Sits  near  an  open  grave  and  calls  them  over, 
A  Youth  with  hoary  hair  and  haggard  ey* — ■ 

They  are  names  of  kindred,  friend  and  lover, 
W'hich  he  so  feebly  calls — they  all  arc  gone  ! 
Fond  wretch,  all  dead,  those  vacant  names  alone. 
This  most  fiimiliar  scene,  my  pain — 
These  tombs  alone  remain. 

Misery,  my  sweetest  friend — oh  !  weep  no  more  ! 

Thou  wilt  not  be  consoled — I  wonder  not ! 
For  I  have  seen  thee  from  thy  dwelling's  door 

Watch  the  calm  sunset  with  them,  and  this  spot 
Was  even  as  bright  and  calm,  but  transitory. 
And  now  thy  hopes  are  gone,  thy  hair  is  hoary ; 
This  most  fiimiliar  scene,  my  pain 
Tiiese  tombs  alone  remain. 


SONNET.— OZYMANDIAS. 


I  iMET  a  traveller  from  an  antique  land 
Who  said:  Two  vast  and  truiikless  legs  of  stone 
Stand  in  the  desert.     Near  them,  on  the  sand, 
Half  sunk,  a  shattered  visage  lies,  whose  frown, 
And  wrinkled  lip,  and  sneer  of  cold  command, 


Tell  that  its  sculptor  well  those  passions  read 
Which  yet  survive,  stamped  on  these  lifeless  things. 
The  hand  that  mocked  tiicm  and  the  heart  that  fed; 
And  on  the  pedestal  these  words  appear: 
"  iMy  name  is  Ozymandias,  king  of  kings  : 
Look  on  my  works,  ye  Mighty,  and  despair!" 
Nothing  beside  remains.     Round  the  decay 
Of  that  colossal  wreck,  boundless  and  bare. 
The  lone  and  level  sands  stretch  far  away. 


ON  F.  G. 

Heu  voice  did  quiver  as  we  parted. 

Yet  knew  I  not  that  heart  was  broken 
From  which  it  came,  and  I  departed 
Heeding  not  the  words  then  spoken. 
Miser}- — O  Misery, 
This  world  is  all  too  wide  for  thee. 


LINES  TO  A  CRITIC. 

Ho^'ET  from  silkworms  who  can  gather, 
Or  silk  from  the  yellow  bee  ? 

The  grass  may  grow  in  winter  weather 
As  soon  as  hate  in  me. 

Hate  men  who  cant  and  men  who  pray, 
And  men  who  rail  like  thee ; 

An  equal  passion  to  repay 
They  are  not  coy  like  me. 

Or  seek  some  slave  of  power  and  gold, 
To  be  thy  dear  heart's  mate ; 

Thy  love  will  move  that  bigot  cold, 
Sooner  than  me  thy  hate. 

A  passion  like  the  one  I  prove, 

Cannot  divided  be ; 
I  hate  thy  want  of  truth  and  love — 
How  should  I  then  hate  thee  ! 
December,  1817. 


LINES. 


That  time  is  dead  for  ever,  child. 
Drowned,  frozen,  dead  for  ever  ! 

We  look  on  the  past, 

And  stare  aghast 
At  the  spectres  wailing,  pale,  and  ghast, 
Of  hopes  which  thou  and  I  beguiled 

To  death  on  life's  dark  river. 

The  stream  we  gazed\on  then  rolled  by; 
Its  waves  are  unreturning; 

But  we  yet  stand 

In  a  lone  land, 
Like  tombs  to  mark  the  memory 
Of  hopes  and  fears,  which  fade  and  flee 

In  the  light  of  Ufa's  dim  mOrning. 
JVovember  5lh,  1817. 


EDITOR'S    NOTE    ON    POEMS    OF    181,7. 


229 


NOTE  ON  POEMS  OF  1817. 


BY  THE  EDITOIl. 


The  vpry  illness  that  opprcs.seJ,  and  the  aspect 
of  death  which  had  approaclicd  so  near  Shelley, 
appears  to  have  kindled  to  yot  keener  life  the  Spirit 
of  Poetry  in  his  heart.  The  restless  thoughts  kept 
awake  by  pain  clothed  themselves  in  verse.  Much 
was  composed  during  this  year.  The  "  Revolt  of 
Islam,"  written  and  printed,  was  a  great  effort — 
"  Rosalind  and  Helen"  was  begun — and  the  frag- 
ments and  poems  I  can  trace  to  the  same  period, 
show  how  full  of  passion  and  reflection  were  his 
solitary  hours. 

In  addition  to  such  poems  as  have  an  intelligible 
aim  and  shape,  many  a  stray  idea  and  transitory 
emotion  found  imperfect  and  abrupt  expression, 
and  then  again  lost  themselves  in  silence.  As  he 
never  wandered  without  a  book,  and  without  im- 
plements of  writing,  I  find  many  such  in  his  manu- 
script books,  that  scarcely  bear  record  ;  while  some 
of  them,  broken  and  vague  as  they  are,  will  appear 
valuable  to  those  who  love  Shelley's  mind,  and 
desire  to  trace  its  workings.  Thus  in  the  same 
book  that  addresses  "  Constantia,  Singings"  I  find 
these  lines : 

My  spirit  like  a  charmed  bark  doth  swim 
Upon  the  liquid  waves  of  thy  sweet  singing. 

Far  away  into  the  regions  dim 
Of  r.-ipture— as  a  boat  with  swift  sails  winding 
Its  w'ay  adown  some  many-winding  river. 

And  this  apostrophe  to  Music: 

No,  Music,  thou  art  not  the  God  of  Love, 
Unless  Love  feeds  upon  its  own  sweet  self, 
Till  it  becomes  all  music  murmurs  of. 

In  another  firagment  he  calls  it 

The  silver  key  of  the  fountain  of  tears. 

Where  the  spirit  drinks  till  the  brain  is  wild  ; 

Softest  grave  of  a  thousand  fears. 
Where  their  mother.  Care,  like  a  drowsy  child. 
Is  laid  asleep  in  flowers. 

And  then  again  this  melancholy  trace  of  the  sad 
thronging  thoughts,  which  were  the  well  whence 
he  drew  the  idea  of  Athanase,  and  express  the  rest- 
less, pa.ssion-fraught  emotions  of  one  whose  sensi- 
bility, kindled  to  too  intense  a  Ufe,  perpetually 
preyed  upon  itself; 

To  thirst  and  find  no  fill — to  wail  and  wander 
With  short  unsteady  steps — to  pause  and  (Muiiler — 
To  feid  the  blood  run  throujh  the  veins  and  liniile 
Where  busy  thought  and  blind  sensation  inin;jle  ; 
To  nurse  the  imasie  of  unfelt  caresses 
Till  dim  imagination  just  possesses 
The  half-created  shadow. 


In  the  next  page  I  find  a  calmer  sentiment,  better 
fitted  to  sustain  one  whose  whole  being  was  love  : 

Wealth  and  dominion  fade  into  the  mass 
Of  the  great  sea  of  human  right  and  wrong, 
Wlien  once  from  our  po.sSession  they  must  pass  ; 
But  love,  thouirh  misdirected,  is  among 
The  things  which  are  immortal,  and  surpass 
All  thai  frail  stuff  which  will  be— or  which  was. 

In  another  book,  which  contains  some  passionate 
outbreaks  with  regard  to  the  great  injustice  that 
he  endured  this  year,  the  poet  writes : 

My  thoughts  arise  and  fade  in  solitude. 
The  verse  that  would  invest  them  melts  away 
Like  moonlight  in  the  heaven  of  spreading  day: 
flow  beautiful  they  were,  how  firm  they  stood. 
Flecking  the  starry  sky  like  woven  pearl ! 

He  had  this  year  also  projected  a  poem  on  the  sub- 
ject of  Otho,  inspired  by  the  pages  of  Tacitus.  I 
find  one  or  two  stanzas  only,  which  were  to  open 
the  subject: 


Thou  wert  not,  Cassius,  and  thou  couldst  not  be. 
Last  of  the  Romans,  though  thy  memory  claim 
From  Brutus  his  own  glory — and  on  thee 
Rests  the  full  splendour  of  his  sacred  fame  ; 
Nor  he  who  dared  make  the  foul  tyrant  quail. 
Amid  his  cowering  senate  with  thy  name. 
Though  thou  and  he  were  great — it  will  avail 
To  thine  own  fame  that  Otho's  should  not  fail. 

'Twill  wrong  thee  not — thou  wouldst,  if  thou  couldst 

feel. 
Abjure  such  envious  fame — great  Otho  died 
Like  thee — he  sanctified  his  country's  steel. 
At  once  the  tyrant  and  tyrannicide. 
In  his  own  blood — a  deed  it  was  to  buy 
Tears  from  all  men — though  full  of  gentle  pride. 
Such  pride  as  from  impetuous  love  may  spring, 
That  will  not  be  refused  its  offering. 

I  insert  here  also  the  fragment  of  a  song,  though 
I  do  not  know  the  date  when  it  was  written, — but 
it  was  early : 

TO  . 

Yet  look  on  me — take  not  thine  eyes  away. 
Which  feed  upon  the  love  within  mine  own. 

Which  is  indeed  but  the  reflected  ray 
Of  thine  own  beauty  from  my  spirit  thrown. 

Yet  speak  to  me — thy  voice  is  as  the  tone 

Of  niy  heart's  echo,  and  I  think  I  hear 
That  thou  yet  love.<l  me  ;  yet  thou  alone 

Like  one  before  a  mirror,  without  care 
Of  ausht  but  thine  own  features,  imaged  tliere  ; 

And  yet  I  wear  out  life  in  watching  thee  ; 
A  toil  so  sweet  at  times,  and  thou  indeed 

Art  kind  when  1  &m  siik,  and  pitv  me. 
U 


230 


EDITOR'S    NOTE    ON    POEMS    OF    1817. 


He  projected  also  translating  the  Hymns  of 
Homer ;  his  version  of  several  of  the  shorter  ones 
remain,  as  well  as  that  to  Mercury,  already  pub- 
lished in  the  Posthumous  Poems.  His  readings 
this  3'ear  were  chiefly  Greek.  Besides  the  Hymns 
of  Homer  and  the  Iliad,  he  read  the  Dramas  of 
--Eschjlus  and  Sophocles,  the  Symposium  of  Plato, 
and  Arrian's  Historia  Indica.  In  Latin,  Apulcius 
alone  is  named.  In  English,  the  Bible  was  his 
constant  study ;  he  read  a  great  portion  of  it  aloud 
in  the  evening.  Among  these  evening  readings,  I 
find  also  mentioned  the  Faiiy  Queen,  and  other 
modern  works,  the  production  of  his  contempora- 
ries, Coleridge,  Wordsworth,  Moore,  and  Byron. 

His  life  was  now  spent  more  in  thought  than 
action — he  had  lost  the  eager  spirit  which  believed 
it  could  achieve  what  it  projected  for  the  benefit 
of  mankind.  And  yet  in  the  converse  of  daily  hfe 
Shelley  was  far  from  being  a  melancholy  man. 
He  was  eloquent  when  philosophy,  or  politics,  or 
taste,  were  the  subjects  of  conversation.     He  was 


playful — and  indulged  in  the  wild  spirit  that  mocked 
itself  and  others — not  in  bitterness,  but  in  sport 
The  author  of  "  Nightmare  Abbey"  seized  on  some 
points  of  his  character  and  some  habits  of  his  life 
when  he  painted  Scythrop.  He  was  not  addicted 
to  "  port  or  madeira,"  but  in  youth  he  had  read  of 
« lUuminati  and  Eleuthcrachs,"  and  believed 
that  he  possessed  the  power  of  operating  an  imme- 
diate change  in  the  minds  of  men  and  the  state  of 
society.  These  wild  dreams  had  faded ;  sorrow 
and  adversity  had  struck  home ;  but  he  struggled 
with  despondency  as  he  did  with  physical  pain. 
There  are  few  who  remember  him  sailing  paper 
boats,  and  watching  the  navigation  of  his  tiny  craft 
with  eagerness — or  repeating  with  wild  energy  the 
"  Ancient  Mariner,"  and  Southey's  "  Old  Woman 
of  Berkeley," — but  those  who  do,  will  recollect 
that  it  was  in  such,  and  in.  the  creations  of  his 
own  fancy,  when  that  was  most  daring  and  ideal, 
that  he  sheltered  himself  from  the  storms  and  dis- 
appointments, the  pain  and  sorrow,  that  beset  his 
life. 


rOEMS  WRITTEN  IN  MDCCCXAail. 


ROSALIND  AND  HELEN. 


ADVERTISEMENT 


ROSALIND     AXD      HELEN,     AND      LINES    WRITTEN 
AMONG    THE     fcUGANEAN    HILLS. 


The  story  of  Rosalinu  and  Helen  is,  un- 
doubtedly, not  an  attempt  in  the  highest  style  of 
poetry.  It  is  in  no  degree  calculated  to  excite  pro- 
found meditation ;  and  if,  by  interesting  the  affec- 
tions and  amusing  the  imagination,  it  awaken  a 
certain  ideal  melancholy  favourable  to  the  recep- 
tion of  more  important  impressions,  it  will  produce 
in  the  reader  all  that  the  writer  experienced  in  the 
composition.  I  resigned  myself,  as  I  wrote,  to  the 
impulse  of  the  feelings  which  moulded  the  con- 
ception of  the  story,  and  this  impulse  determined 
the  pauses  of  a  measure,  which  only  pretends  to 
be  regular,  inasmuch  as  it  corresponds  with,  and 
expresses,  the  irregularity  of  the  imaginations 
which  inspired  it. 


I  do  not  know  which  of  the  few  scattered 
poems  I  left  in  England  will  be  selected  by  my 
bookseller  to  ^fcd  to  this  collection.  One,  which  I 
sent  from  Italy,  was  written  after  a  day's  excursion 
among  those  lovely  mountains  ,which  surround 
what  was  once  the  retreat,  and  where  is  now  the 
sepulchre,  of  Petrarch.  If  any  one  is  inclined  to 
condemn  the  insertion  of  the  introductory  lines, 
which  image  forth  the  sudden  relief  of  a  state  of 
deep  despondency  by  the  radiant  visions  disclosed 
by  the  sudden  burst  of  an  Italian  sunrise  in  autumn, 
on  the  highest  peak  of  those  delightful  mountains, 
I  can  only  offer  as  my  excuse,  that  they  were  not 
erased  at  the  request  of  a  dear  friend,  with  whom 
added  years  of  intercourse  only  add  to  my  appre- 
hension of  its  value,  and  who  would  have  had 
more  right  than  any  one  to  complain,  that  she  has 
not  been  able  to  extinguish  in  me  the  very  power 
of  delineating  sadness. 

Naples,  Dec.  20,  i818. 


SCENE.— r/te  Shore  of  the  Lake  of  Coma. 
Rosalind,  Helen,  and  her  child. 

HELEN. 

Come  hither,  my  sweet  Rosalind. 

'Tis  long  since  thou  and  I  have  met : 

And  yet  methinks  it  were  unkind 

Those  moments  to  forget. 

Come,  sit  by  me.     I  see  thee  stand 

By  this  lone  lake,  in  this  far  land. 

Thy  loose  hair  in  the  light  wind  flying. 

Thy  sweet  voice  to  each  tone  of  even 

United,  and  thine  eyes  replying 

To  the  hues  of  yon  fair  heaven. 

Come.'gcntle  friend  !  wilt  sit  by  me  1 

And  be  as  thou  wert  wont  to  be 

Ere  we  were  disunited  1 

IVone  doth  behold  us  now:  the  power 

That  led  us  forth  at  this  lone  hour 

Will  be  but  ill  requited 

If  thou  depart  in  scorn  ;  oh  !  come. 

And  talk  of  our  abandoned  home. 

Remember  this  is  Italy, 

And  we  are  exiles.     Talk  with  me 

Of  that  our  laud,  whose  wilds  and  floods. 

Barren  and  dark  although  they  be, 

V/ere  dearer  than  these  chestnut  woods ; 


Those  heathy  paths,  tliat  inland  stream. 
And  the  blue  mountains,  shapes  which  seem 
Like  wrecks  of  childhood's  sunny  dream  : 
Which  that  we  have  abandoned  now. 
Weighs  on  the  heart  like  that  remorse 
Which  altered  friendship  leaves.     I  seek 
No  more  our  youthful  intercourse. 
That  caimot  be  !  Rosalind,  speak,  [come. 

Speak  to  me.     Leave  me  not. — When  morn  did 
When  evening  fell  upon  our  common  home, 
When  for  one  hour  we  parted, — do  not  frown ; 
I  would  not  chide  thee,  though  thy  faith  is  broken : 
But  turn  to  me.     Oh  !  by  this  cherished  token 
Of  woven  hair,  which  thou  wilt  not  disown, 
Turn,  as  'twere  but  the  memory  of  me. 
And  not  my  scorned  self  who  prayed  to  thee. 

ROSALIND. 

Is  it  a  dream,  or  do  I  see 

And  hear  frail  Helen  ]   I  would  flee 

Thy  tainting  touch;  but  former  years 

Arise,  and  bring  forbidden  tears; 

Aud  my   o'erburdened  memory 

Seeks  yet  its  lost  repose  in  thee. 

I  share  thy  crime.     I  cannot  choose 

But  weep  for  thee  :  mine  own  strange  grief 

But  seldom  stoops  to  such  relief; 


232 


POEMS    WRITTEN    IN    1818. 


Nor  ever  did  I  love  thee  less, 
Though  mourning  o'er  thy  wickedness 
Even  with  a  sister's  wo.     I  knew 
What  to  the  evil  world  is  due, 
And  therefore  sternly  did  refuse 
To  link  me  with  the  infamy 
Of  one  so  lost  as  Helen.     Now 
Bewildered  bj"  my  dire  despair. 
Wondering  I  blush  and  weep  that  thou 
Shouldst  love  me  still, — thou  only  ! — There, 
Let  us  sit  on  that  graj-  stone. 
Till  our  mournful  talk  be  done. 

HELEN. 

Alas !  not  there  ;  I  cannot  bear 

The  murmur  of  this  lake  to  hear. 

A  sound  from  thee,  Rosalind  dear, 

Which  never  yet  I  heard  elsewhere 

But  in  our  native  land,  recurs, 

Even  here  where  now  we  meet.     It  stirs 

Too  much  of  sutTocating  sorrow  ! 

In  the  dell  of  yon  dark  chestnut  wood 

Is  a  stone  seat,  a  solitude 

Less  like  our  own.     The  ghost  of  peace 

Will  not  desert  this  spot.     To-morrow 

If  thy  kind  feelings  should  not  cease, 

We  may  sit  here. 

HOSALrXD. 

Thou  lead,  my  sweet, 
And  I  will  follow. 

henhy. 

'Tis  Fenici's  seat 
Where  you  are  going.     This  is  not  the  way. 
Mamma ;  it  leads  beyond  those  trees  that  grow 
Close  to  the  little  river. 


Yes  ;  I  know ; 
I  was  bewildered.  Kiss  me,  and  be  gay, 
Dear  boy,  why  do  you  sob  1 

HENRY. 

I  do  not  know : 
But  it  might  break  any  one's  heart  to  see 
You  and  the  lady  cry  so  bitterly. 

HELEN. 

It  is  a  gentle  child,  my  friend.     Go  home, 
Henry,  and  play  with  Lilla  till  I  come. 
We  only  cried  with  joy  to  see  each  other; 
We  are  quite  merry  now — Good  night. 

The  boy 
Lifted  a  sudden  look  upon  his  mother, 
And  in  the  gleam  of  forced  and  hollow  joy 
Which  lightened  o'er  her  face,  laughed  with  the  glee 
Of  light  and  unsuspecting  infancy. 
And  whispered  in  her  ear,  "  Bring  home  with  you 
That  sweet,  strange  lady-friend."  Then  off  he  flew. 
But  stopped,  and  beckoned  with  a  meaning  smile, 
Where  the?  road  turned.    Pale  Rosalind  the  while. 
Hiding  her  face,  stood  weeping  silently. 

In  silence  then'  they  took  the  way 
Beneath  the  forest's  solitude. 
It  was  a  vast  and  antique  wood. 
Through  which  they  took  their  way; 


And  the  gray  shades  of  evening 

O'er  that  green  wilderness  did  fling 

Still  deeper  solitude. 

Pursuing  still  the  path  that  wound 

The  vast  and  knotted  trees  around. 

Through  which  slow  shades  were  wandering. 

To  a  deep  lawny  dell  they  came. 

To  a  stone  seat  beside  a  spring. 

O'er  which  the  columned  wood  did  frame 

A  roofless  temple,  like  the  fane 

Where,  ere  new  creeds  could  faith  obtain, 

Man's  early  race  once  knelt  beneath 

The  overhanging  deity. 

O'er  this  fair  fountain  hung  the  sky, 

Now  spangled  with  rare  stars.     The  snake. 

The  pale  snake,  that  with  eager  breath 

Creeps  here  his  noontide  thirst  to  slake. 

Is  beaming  with  manj-  a  mingled  hue. 

Shed  from  yon  dome's  eternal  blue, 

When  he  floats  on  that  dark  and  lucid  flood 

In  the  light  of  his  own  loveliness ; 

And  the  birds  that  in  the  fountain  dip 

Their  plumes  with  fearless  fellowship 

Above  and  round  him  wheel  and  hover. 

The  fitful  wind  is  heard  to  stir 

One  solitary  leaf  on  high ; 

The  chirping  of  the  grasshopper 

Fills  even.'  pause.     There  is  emotion 

In  all  that  dwells  at  noontide  here  : 

Then,  through  the  intricate  wild  wood, 

A  maze  of  life  and  light  and  motion 

Is  woven.     But  there  is  stillness  now ; 

Gloom,  and  the  trance  of  Nature  now : 

The  snake  is  in  his  cave  asleep ; 

The  birds  are  on  the  branches  dreaming ; 

Only  the  shadows  creep ; 

Only  the  glo'mvorm  is  gleaming ; 

Only  the  owls  and  the  nightingales 

Vv^ake  in  this  dell  when  daylight  fiils, 

And  gray  shades  gather  in  the  woods ; 

And  the  owls  have  all  fled  far  away 

In  a  merrier  glen  to  hoot  and  play, 

For  the  moon  is  veiled  and  sleeping  now. 

The  accustomed  nightingale  still  broods 

On  her  accustomed  bough. 

But  she  is  mute ;  for  her  false  mate 

Has  fled  and  left  her  desolate. 

This  silent  spot  tradition  old 

Had  peopled  with  the  spectral  dead. 

For  the  roots  of  the  speaker's  hair  felt  cold 

And  stiff,  as  with  tremulous  lips  he  told 

That  a  hellish  shajie  at  midnight  led 

The  ghost  of  a  youth  with  hoary  hair, 

And  sate  on  the  seat  beside  him  there, 

Till  a  naked  child  came  wandering  by, 

When  the  fiend  would  change  to  a  lady  fair ! 

A  fearful  talc  !    The  truth  was  worse : 

For  here  a  sister  and  a  brother 

Had  solemnized  a  monstrous  curse, 

Electing  in  this  fair  solitude  : 

For  beneath  yon  very  sky. 

Had  they  resigned  to  one  another 

Body  and  soul.     The  multitude. 

Tracking  them  to  the  secret  wood, 


ROSALIND    AND    HELEN. 


233 


Tore  lunb  from  limb  their  iiinoccut  eliild, 
Anil  sti\bl)ed  and  trampled  on  its  mother; 
But  the  youth,  for  God's  most  holy  graec, 
A  priest  saved  to  burn  in  the  mai-ket-place. 

Duly  at  evening  Helen  came 

To  this  Ion«  silent  spot, 

From  the  wiccks  of  a  talc  of  wilder  sorrow 

So  mueh  of  sym[)athy  to  borrow 

As  soothed  htj-  own  dark  lot. 

Duly  each  eveiini:;  from  her  home, 

With  her  fair  e'jild  would  Helen  come 

To  sit  upon  thai  antiipic  seat, 

While  the  hues  of  day  were  pale  ; 

AikI  the  bright  boy  beside  her  feet 

Now  lay,  lifting  at  intervals 

His  broad  blue  eyej  on  her ; 

Now,  where  some  aidden  impulse  calls, 

Following.     He  was  a  gentle  boy, 

And  in  all  gentle  spotts  took  joy; 

Oft  in  a  dry  leaf  for  a  boat. 

With  a  small  feather  fGr  a  sail, 

His  fancy  on  that  sprinj  would  float, 

If  some  invisible  breeze  aiight  stir 

Its  marble  calm:  and  Hdcn  smiled 

Through  tears  of  awe  on  \he  gay  cliild, 

To  think  that  a  boy  as  fair  as  he, 

In  years  which  never  more  may  be, 

By  that  same  fount,  in  that  same  wood. 

The  like  sweet  fancies  had  jxirsued ; 

And  that  a  mother,  lost  hke  her, 

Had  mournfully  sate  watching  him. 

Then  all  the  scene  was  wont  to  swim 

Through  the  mist  of  a  burning  tear. 

For  many  months  had  Helen  known 

This  scene  ;  and  now  she  thither  turned 

Her  footsteps,  not  alone. 

The  friend  whose  falsehood  she  had  mourned. 

Sate  with  her  on  that  seat  of  stone. 

Silent  they  sate  ;  for  evening, 

And  the  power  its  glimpses  bring. 

Had,  with  one  awful  shadow,  quelled 

The  passion  of  their  grief.     They  sate 

With  linked  hands,  for  unrepelled 

Had  Helen  taken  Ros.dind's. 

Like  the  autumn  wind,  when  it  unbinds 

The  tangled  locks  of  the  nightshade's  hair. 

Which  is  twined  in  the  sultry  summer  air 

Round  the  walls  of  an  outworn  sepulchre. 

Did  the  voice  of  Helen,  sad  and  sweet. 

And  the  sound  of  her  heart  that  ever  beat. 

As  with  sighs  and  words  she  breathed  on  her, 

Unbind  the  knots  of  her  friend's  despair, 

Till  her  thoughts  were  free  to  float  and  flow ; 

And  from  her  labouring  bosom  now. 

Like  the  bursting  of  a  prisoned  flame. 

The  voice  of  a  long-pent  sorrow  came. 

IlOSALIXn. 

I  saw  the  dark  earth  fill  upon 
The  colliu ;  and  I  saw  the  stone 
Laid  over  him  whom  this  cold  breast 
Had  pillowed  to  his  nightly  rest ! 
30 


Thou  knowcst  not,  thou  canst  not  know 

My  agony.     Oh  !   I  could  not  weep : 

The  sources  whence  such  blessings  flow 

Were  not  to  be  api)roached  by  me  ! 

But  I  could  smile,  and  I  could  sleep. 

Though  with  a  self-accusing  heart. 

In  morning's  light,  in  evening's  gloom, 

I  watched, — and  would  not  thence  depart, — 

My  husbanil's  unhimcnted  tomb. 

My  children  knew  their  sire  was  gone. 

But  when  I  told  them,  "he  is  dead," 

They  laughed  alo\id  in  frantic  glee. 

They  clapped  their  hands  and  leaped  about, 

Answering  each  other's  ccstacy 

With  many  a  prank  and  merry  shout ; 

But  I  sat  silent  and  alone, 

Wrapped  in  the  mock  of  mourning  weed. 

They  laughed,  for  he  was  dead ;  but  I 
Sate  with  a  hard  and  tearless  eye, 
And  with  a  heart  which  would  deny 
The  secret  joy  it  could  not  quell. 
Low  muttering  o'er  his  loathed  name ; 
Till  from  that  self-contention  came 
Remorse  where  sin  was  none ;  a  hell 
Which  in  pure  spirits  should  not  dwell. 

I'll  tell  thee  truth.     He  was  a  man 

Hard,  selfish,  loving  only  gold, 

Yet  fiill  of  guile :   his  pale  eyes  ran 

With  tears,  which  each  some  falsehood  told. 

And  oft  his  smooth  and  bridled  tongue 

Would  give  the  lie  to  his  flushing  cheek : 

He  was  a  coward  to  the  strong ; 

He  was  a  tyrant  to  the  weak, 

On  whom  his  vengeance  he  would  wreak : 

For  scorn,  whose  arrows  search  the  heart. 

From  many  a  stranger's  eye  would  dart. 

And  on  his  memory  cling,  and  follow 

His  soul  to  its  home  so  cold  and  hollow. 

He  was  a  tyrant  to  the  weak. 

And  we  were  such,  alas  the  day  ! 

Oft,  when  my  little  ones  at  play. 

Were  in  youth's  natural  lightness  gay, 

Or  if  they  listened  to  some  tale 

Of  travellers,  or  of  fairy  land, — 

When  the  light  from  the  wood-fire's  dying  brand 

Flashed  on  their  foces, — if  they  heard 

Or  thought  they  heard  upon  the  stair 

His  footstep,  the  suspended  w-ord 

Died  on  my  lips  :  we  all  grew  pale ; 

The  babe  at  my  bosom  was  hushed  with  fear 

If  it  thought  it  heard  its  father  near ; 

And  my  two  wild  boys  would  near  my  knee 

Cling,  cowed  and  cowering  fearfully. 

I'll  tell  the  truth :    I  loved  another. 

His  name  in  my  ear  was  ever  ringing. 

His  form  to  my  brain  was  ever  clinging ; 

Yet  if  some  stranger  breathed  that  name. 

My  lips  turned  white,  and  my  heart  beat  fast : 

My  nights  were  once  haunted  by  dreams  of  flame. 

My  days  were  dim  in  the  shadow  cast. 

By  the  memory  of  the  same  ! 

Day  and  night,  day  and  night, 

He  was  my  breath  and  life  and  light. 

For  three  short  years,  which  soon  were  past. 


234 


POEMS    WRITTEN    IN    18  18. 


On  the  fourth,  my  gentle  mother 

Led  me  to  the  shrine,  to  be 

His  sworn  bride  eternally. 

And  now  we  stood  on  the  altar  stair, 

When  my  father  came  from  a  distant  land, 

And  with  a  loud  and  fearful  cry, 

Ruslicd  between  us  suddenly. 

I  saw  the  stream  of  his  thin  gray  hair, 

I  saw  his  lean  and  lifted  hand. 

And  heard  his  words, — and  live  !    O  God ! 

Wherefore  do  I  live  1 — "  Hold,  hold  !" 

He  cried, — "  I  tell  thee  'tis  her  brother ! 

Thy  mother,  boy,  beneath  the  sod 

Of  yon  churchyard  rests  in  her  shroud  so  cold. 

I  am  now  weak,  and  pale,  and  old : 

We  were  once  dear  to  one  another, 

I  and  that  corpse !     Thou  art  our  child  !" 

Then  with  a  laugh  both  long  and  wild 

The  youth  upon  the  pavement  fell : 

They  found  him  dead  !     All  looked  on  me, 

The  spasms  of  my  despair  to  see ; 

But  I  was  calm.     I  went  away; 

I  was  clammy-cold  like  clay  ! 

I  did  not  weep — I  did  not  speak ; 

But  day  by  day,  week  after  week, 

I  walked  about  like  a  corpse  alive ! 

Alas!  sweet  friend,  you  must  believe 

This  heart  is  stone — it  did  not  break. 

My  father  lived  a  little  while, 

But  all  might  see  that  he  was  dying. 

He  smiled  with  such  a  woful  smile ! 

When  he  was  in  the  chxirchyard  lying 

Among  the  worms,  we  grew  quite  poor, 

So  that  no  one  would  give  us  bread ; 

My  mother  looked  at  me,  and  said 

Faint  words  of  cheer,  which  only  meant 

That  she  could  die  and  be  content ; 

So  I  went  forth  from  the  same  church  door 

To  another  husband's  bed. 

And  this  was  he  who  died  at  last, 

When  weeks  and  months  and  years  had  past. 

Through  which  I  firmly  did  fulfil 

My  duties,  a  devoted  wife. 

With  the  stern  step  of  vanquished  will, 

Walking  beneath  the  night  of  life, 

Whose  hours  extinguished,  like  slow  rain 

Falling  for  ever,  pain  by  pain, 

The  very  hope  of  death's  dear  rest ; 

Which,  since  the  heart  within  my  breast 

Of  natural  life  was  dispossest, 

Its  strange  sustainer  there  had  been. 

When  flowers  were  dead,  and  grass  was  green 
Upon  ray  mother's  grave, — that  mother 
Whom  to  outlive,  and  cheer,  and  make 
My  wan  eyes  glitter  for  her  sake, 
Was  my  vowed  task,  the  single  care 
Which  once  gave  life  to  my  despair, — i 
When  she  was  a  thing  that  did  not  stir. 
And  the  crawling  worms  were  cradling  her 
To  a  sleep  more  deep  and  so  more  sweet 
Than  a  baby's  rocked  on  its  imrse's  knee, 
I  lived;  a  living  pulse  then  beat 
Beneath  my  heart  that  awakened  me. 
What  was  this  pulse  so  warm  and  free  1 


Alas !    I  knew  it  could  not  be 

My  own  dull  blood  :  'twas  like  a  thought 

Of  liquid  love,  that  sjjrcad  and  wrought 

Under  my  bosom  and  in  my  brain, 

And  crept  with  the  blood  through  every  ■«ein ; 

And  hour  by  hour,  day  after  day. 

The  wonder  could  not  charm  away, 

But  laid  in  sleep  my  wakeful  pain. 

Until  I  knew  it  was  a  child. 

And  then  I  wept.     For  loug,  long  yevcs 

These  frozen  eyes  had  shed  no  tears: 

But  now — 'twas  the  season  fair  anc^  mild 

When  April  has  wept  itself  to  Ma} : 

I  sate  through  the  sweet  sunny  da/ 

By  my  window  bowered  roimd  with  leaves. 

And  down  my  cheeks  the  quick  ^ears  ran 

Like  twinkling  rain-drops  from  ;he  eaves, 

When  warm  spring  showers  an  passmg  o'er: 

0  Helen,  none  can  ever  tell 

The  joy  it  was  to  weep  once  uore ! 

1  wept  to  think  how  hard  it  were 
To  kill  my  babe,  and  take  from  it 
The  sense  of  light,  and  the  warm  air, 
And  my  own  fond  and  teider  care. 
And  love  and  smiles ;  ere  I  knew  yet 
That  these  for  it  might,  js  for  me. 
Be  the  masks  of  a  grinning  mockery. 
And  haply,  I  would  dream,  'twere  sweet 
To  feed  it  from  my  foi'cd  breast, 

Or  mark  my  own  heart's  restless  beat 

Rock  it  to  its  untroulied  rest ; 

And  watch  the  growing  soul  beneath 

Dawn  in  faint  smiles ;  and  hear  its  breath, 

Half  interrupted  b\  calm  sighs ; 

And  search  the  depth  of  its  fair  eyes 

For  long  departed  memories  ! 

And  so  I  lived  till  that  sweet  load 

Was  hghtened.     Darkly  forward  flowed 

The  stream  of  years,  and  on  it  bore 

Two  shapes  of  gladness  to  my  sight; 

Two  other  balies,  delightful  more 

In  my  lost  soul's  abandoned  night, 

Than  their  own  country  ships  may  be 

Sailing  towards  wrecked  mariners, 

Who  cling  to  the  rock  of  a  wintry  sea. 

For  each,  as  it  came,  brought  soothing  tears, 

And  a  loosening  warmth,  as  each  one  lay 

Sucking  the  sullen  milk  away. 

About  my  frozen  heart  did  play. 

And  weaned  it,  oh  how  painfully ! — • 

As  they  themselves  vvere  weaned  each  one 

From  that  sweet  food, — even  from  the  tliirst 

Of  death,  and  nothingness,  and  rest, 

Strange  inmate  of  a  living  breast! 

Which  all  that  I  had  undergone 

Of  grief  and  shame,  since  she,  who  first 

The  gates  of  that  dark  refuge  closed. 

Came  to  my  sight,  and  almost  burst 

The  seal  of  that  Lethean  spring  ; 

But  these  fair  shadows  interposed  : 

For  all  delights  are  shadows  now  ! 

And  from  my  brain  to  my  dull  brow 

The  heavy  tears  gather  and  flow: 

I  cannot  speak — Oh  let  me  weep ! 


ROSALIND    AND    HELEN 


235 


The  tears  which  fell  from  her  wan  eyes 
Glimmered  amoiii?  the  moonlight  dew ! 
Her  deep  hard  sobs  and  heavy  sighs 
Their  echoes  in  the  darkness  threw. 
When  she  grew  calm,  she  thus  did  keep 
The  tenor  of  her  tale : 

He  died, 
I  know  not  how.     He  was  not  old, 
If  age  be  nuinhered  by  its  years ; 
But  he  was  bowed  and  bent  with  fears. 
Pale  with  the  quenchless  thirst  of  gold. 
Which,  like  fierce  fever,  left  him  weak ; 
And  his  sti-ait  lip  and  bloated  cheek 
Were  warped  in  spasms  by  hollow  sneers ; 
And  selfish  cares  with  barren  plough. 
Not  age,  had  lined  his  narrow  brow. 
And  foul  and  cruel  thoughts,  which  feed 
Upon  the  withering  life  within. 
Like  vipers  on  some  poisonous  weed. 
Whether  his  ill  were  death  or  sin 
None  knew,  until  he  died  indeed. 
And  then  men  owned  they  were  the  same. 

Seven  days  within  my  chamber  lay' 
That  corse,  and  my  babes  made  holiday  : 
At  last,  I  told  them  what  is  death  : 
The  eldest,  with  a  kind  of  shame. 
Came  to  my  knees  with  silent  breath, 
And  sate  awe-stricken  at  my  feet ; 
And  soon  the  others  left  their  play, 
And  sate  there  too.     It  is  unmeet 
To  shed  on  the  brief  flower  of  youth 
The  withering  knowledge  of  the  grave ; 
From  me  remorse  then  wrung  that  truth. 
I  could  not  bear  the  joy  which  gave 
Too  just  a  response  to  mine  own. 
In  vain.     I  dared  not  feign  a  groan ; 
And  in  their  artless  looks  I  saw. 
Between  the  mists,  of  fear  and  awe. 
That  my  own  thought  was  theirs ;  and  they 
Expressed  it  not  in  words,  but  said, 
Each  in  its  heart,  How  every  day 
W^ill  pass  in  happy  work  and  play, 
Now  he  is  dead  and  gone  away  ! 

After  the  funeral  all  the  kin 

Assembled,  and  the  will  was  read. 

My  friend,  I  tell  thee,  even  the  dead 

Have  strength,  their  putrid  shrouds  within, 

To  blast  and  torture.     Those  who  live 

Still  fear  the  hving,  but  a  corse 

Is  merciless,  and  power  doth  give 

To  such  pale  tyrants  half  the  spoil 

He  rends  from  those  who  groan  and  toil, 

Because  they  blush  not  with  remorse 

Among  their  crawling  worms.     Behold, 

I  have  no  child !  my  tale  grows  old 

With  grief  and  staggers :  let  it  reach 

The  limits  of  my  feeble  speech, 

And  languidly  at  length  recline 

On  the  brink  of  its  own  grave  and  mine. 

Thou  knowest  what  a  thing  is  Poverty 
Among  the  fallen  on  evil  days : 
'Tis  Crime,  and  Fear,  and  Infamy, 
And  houseless  Want  in  frozen  wavs 


Wandering  ungarmcnted,  and  Pain, 

And  worse  than  all,  that  inward  stain. 

Foul  Self-contempt,  which  drowns  in  sneers 

Youth's  starlight  smile,  and  makes  its  tears 

First  like  hot  gall,  then  dry  for  ever! 

And  well  thou  knowest  a  mother  never 

Could  doom  her  children  to  this  ill, 

And  well  he  knew  the  same.     The  will 

Imported,  that  if  e'er  again 

I  sought  my  children  to  behold, 

Or  in  my  birthplace  did  remain 

Beyond  three  days,  whose  hours  were  told, 

They  should  inherit  nought:   and  he, 

'I'o  whom  next  came  their  patrimony, 

A  sallow  lawyer,  cruel  and  cold. 

Aye  watched  me,  as  the  will  was  read, 

Witli  eyes  askance,  which  sought  to  see 

The  secrets  of  my  agony  ; 

And  with  close  lips  and  anxious  brow 

Stood  canvassing  still  to  and  fro 

The  chance  of  my  resolve,  and  all 

The  dead  man's  caution  just  did  call; 

For  in  that  killing  lie  'twas  said — 

"  She  is  adulterous,  and  doth  hold 

In  secret  that  the  Christian  creed 

Is  filsc,  and  therefore  is  much  need 

That  I  should  have  a  care  to  save  ■•  ' 

My  children  from  eternal  fire." 

Friend,  he  was  sheltered  by  the  grave, 

And  therefore  dared  to  be  a  liar ! 

In  truth,  the  Indian  on  the  pyre 

Of  her  dead  husband,  half-consumed, 

As  well  might  there  be  false,  as  I 

To  those  abhorred  embraces  doomed, 

Far  worse  than  hre's  brief  agony. 

As  to  the  Christian  creed,  if  true 

Or  false,  I  never  questioned  it: 

I  took  it  as  the  vulgar  do : 

Nor  my  vext  soul  had  leisure  yet 

To  doubt  the  things  men  say;,  or  deem 

That  they  are  other  than  they  seem. 

All  present  who  those  crimes  did  hear. 

In  feigned  or  actual  scorn  and  fear. 

Men,  women,  children,  slunk  away. 

Whispering  with  self-contented  pride, 

Which  half  suspects  its  own  base  lie. 

I  spoke  to  none,  nor  did  abide. 

But  silently  I  went  my  way. 

Nor  noticed  I  where  joyously 

Sate  my  two  younger  babes  at  play. 

In  the  courtyard  through  which  I  past; 

But  went  with  footstejis  firm  and  fast 

Till  I  came  to  the  brink  of  the  ocean  green, 

And  there,  a  woman  with  gray  hairs. 

Who  had  my  mother's  servant  been. 

Kneeling,  with  many  tears  and  prayers, 

Made  me  accept  a  purse  of  gold. 

Half  of  the  earnings  she  had  kept 

To  refuge  her  when  weak  and  old. 

With  wo,  which  never  sleeps  or  slept, 
I  wander  now.     'Tis  a  vain  thought — 
But  on  yon  alp,  whose  snowy  head 
'Mid  the  azure  air  is  islanded 


236 


POEMS    WRITTEN    IN    18  18. 


(We  see  it  o'er  the  flood  of  cloud, 

Which  sunrise  from  its  eastern  caves 

Drives,  wrinkhiig  into  golden  waves, 

Hung  with  its  precipices  jiroud, 

From  that  gray  stone  where  first  we  met,) 

There,  now  who  knows  the  dead  feel  nought  1 

Should  be  my  grave  ;  for  he  who  yet 

Is  my  soul's  soul,  once  said :  "  'Twere  sweet 

'Mid  stars  and  lightnings  to  abide, 

And  winds  and  lulling  snows,  that  heat 

With  their  soft  flakes  the  mountain  wide, 

When  weary  meteor  lamps  repose. 

And  languid  storms  their  pinions  close: 

And  all  things  strong  and  bright  and  pure. 

And  ever-during,  aye  endure : 

Who  knows,  if  one  were  buried  there, 

But  these  things  might  our  spirits  make. 

Amid  the  all-surrounding  air. 

Their  owia  eternity  partake  ?" 

Then  'twas  a  wild  and  playful  saying 

At  which  I  laughed  or  seemed  to  laugh: 

They  were  his  words :  now  heed  my  praying, 

And  let  them  be  my  epitaph. 

Thy  memory  for  a  term  may  be 

My  monument.     Wilt  remember  me  1 

I  know  thou  wilt,  and  canst  forgive 

Whilst  in  this  erring  world  to  live 

My  soul  disdained  not,  that  I  thought 

Its  lying  forms  were  worthy  aught, 

And  much  less  thee. 


O  speak  not  so, 
But  come  to  me  and  pour  thy  wo 
Into  this  heart,  full  though  it  be, 
Aye  overflowing  with  its  own  : 
I  thought  that  grief  had  severed  me 
From  all  beside  who  weepand  groan; 
Its  likeness  upon  earth  to  be, 
Its  express  image ;  but  thou  art 
More  wretched.     Sweet !  we  will  not  part 
Henceforth,  if  death  be  not  division  ; 
If  so,  the  dead  feel  no  contrition. 
But  wilt  thou  hear,  since  last  we  parted 
All  that  has  left  nie  broken-hearted  ] 

noSALINI). 

Yes,  speak.     The  faintest  stars  are  scarcely  shorn 
Of  their  thin  beams,  by  that  delusive  morn 
Which  sinks  again  in  darkness,  like  the  light 
Of  early  love,  soon  lost  in  total  night. 

HELEN. 

Alas  !  Italian  winds  are  mild. 

But  my  bosom  is  cold — wintry  cold — ■ 

M'^hcn  the  warm  air  weaves,  among  the  fresh  leaves 

Soft  music,  my  poor  brain  is  wild. 

And  I  am  weak  like  a  nursling  child, 

Though  my  soul  with  grief  is  gray  and  old. 

nosALixn, 

Weep  not  at  thine  own  words,  though  they  must 

make 
Me  weep.     What  is  thy  tale  ! 

HELEN. 

I  fear  'twill  shake 


Thy  gentle  heart  with  tears.     Thou  well 
Rememberest  when  we  met  no  more. 
And,  though  I  dwelt  with  Lionel, 
That  friendless  caution  pierced  me  sore 
With  grief — a  wound  my  spirit  bore 
Indignantly  ;  but  when  he  died, 
With  him  lay  dead  both  hope  and  pride. 

Alas  !  all  hope  is  buried  now. 

But  then  men  dreamed  the  aged  earth 

Was  labouring  in  that  mighty  birth. 

Which  many  a  poet  and  a  sage 

Has  aye  foreseen — the  happy  age 

When  truth  and  love  shall  dwell  below 

Among  the  works  and  ways  of  men ; 

'V^'hich  on  this  world  not  power  but  will 

Even  now  is  wanting  to  fulfil. 

Among  mankind  what  thence  befell 

Of  strife,  how  vain,  is  knowm  too  well; 

When  Liberty's  dear  pfean  fell 

'Mid  murderous  howls.     To  Lionel, 

Though  of  great  wealth  and  lineage  high, 

Yet  through  those  dungeon  walls  there  came 

Thy  thrilling  hglit,  O  Liberty! 

And  as  the  meteor's  midnight  flame 

Startles  the  dreamer,  sunlike  truth 

Flashed  on  his  visionary  youth, 

And  filled  him,  not  with  love,  but  faith, 

And  hope,  and  courage  mute  in  death ; 

For  love  and  life  in  him  were  twins, 

Born  at  one  birth :  in  every  other 

First  life,  then  love  its  course  begins. 

Though  they  be  children  of  one  mother; 

And  so  through  this  dark  wojrld  they  fleet 

Divided,  till  in  death  they  meet : 

But  he  loved  all  things  ever.     Then 

He  passed  amid  the  strife  of  men, 

And  stood  at  the  throne  of  armed  power 

Pleading  for  a  world  of  wo  : 

Secure  as  one  on  a  rock-built  tower 

O'er  the  wrecks  which  the  surge  trails  to  and  fro, 

'Mid  the  passions  wild  of  human  kind 

He  stood,  like  a  spirit  calming  them ; 

For,  it  was  said,  his  words  could  bind 

Like  music  the  lulled  crowd,  and  stem 

That  toiTcnt  of  unquiet  dream 

Which  mortals  truth  and  reason  deem. 

But  is  revenge  and  fear,  and  pride. 

Joyous  he  was ;  and  hope  and  peace 

On  all  who  heard  him  did  abide, 

Raining  like  dew  from  his  sweet  talk, 

As  where  ttic  evening  star  may  walk 

Along  the  brink  of  the  gloomy  seas, 

Liquid  mists  of  splendour  quiver. 

His  very  gestures  touched  to  tears 

The  unpersuaded  tyrant,  never 

So  moved  before  :  liis  presence  stung 

The  torturers  with  their  victims'  pain. 

And  none  knew  how ;  and  through  their  cars, 

The  subtle  witchcraft  of  his  tongue 

Unlocked  the  hearts  of  those  who  keep 

Gold,  the  world's  bond  of  slavery. 

Men  wondered  and  some  sneered  to  see 

One  sow  what  he  could  never  reap : 

For  he  is  rich,  they  said,  and  young, 


ROSALIND    AND    HELEN. 


237 


And  mi^ht  drink  fi-om  the  depths  of  luxury. 
If  he  seeks  f;ime,  fame  never  crowned 
The  champion  of  a  trampled  creed: 
•If  he  seeks  power,  power  is  enthroned 
'Mid  ancient  rights  and  wrongs,  to  feed 
Which  hungry  wolves  with  praise  and  spoil, 
Those  who  would  sit  near  power  must  toil; 
And  sucli,  there  sitting,  all  may  see. 
^Vhat  seeks  he  ?     All  that  others  seek 
lie  casts  away,  like  a  vile  weed 
Which  the  sea  casts  unrcturningly. 

That  poor  and  hungry  men  should  break 

The  laws  which  wreak  them  toil  and  scorn, 

We  understand  ;  but  Lionel 

We  know  is  rich  and  nobly  born. 

So  wondered  they ;  yet  all  men  loved 

Young  Lionel,  though  few  approved  ; 

All  but  the  priests,  whose  hatred  fell 

Like  the  unseen  blight  of  a  smiling  day, 

The  withering  honey-dew,  which  clings 

Under  the  bright  green  buds  of  May, 

Whilst  they  unfold  their  emerald  wings : 

For  he  made  verses  wild  and  queer 

On  the  strange  creeds  priests  hold  so  dear, 

Because  they  bring  them  land  and  gold. 

Of  devils  and  saints  and  all  such  gear. 

He  made  tales  which  whoso  heard  or  read 

Would  laugh  till  he  were  almost  dead. 

So  this  grew  a  proverb  :  "  Don't  get  old 

Till  Lionel's  '  banquet  in  hell'  you  hear. 

And  then  you  will  laugh  yourself  young  again." 

So  the  priests  hated  him,  and  he  ,    - 

Repaid  their  hate  with  cheerful  glee.        ^ 

Ah !  smiles  and  joyance  quickly  died, 

For  public  hope  grew  pale  and  dim 

In  an  altered  time  and  tide, 

And  in  its  wasting  withered  him. 

As  a  summer  flower  that  blows  too  soon 

Droops  in  the  smile  of  the  waning  moon, 

When  it  scatters  through  an  April  night 

The  frozen  dews  of  wrinkling  blight. 

None  now  hoped  more.     Gray  Power  was  seated 

Safely  on  her  ancestral  throne ; 

And  Faith,  the  Python,  undefeated. 

Even  to  its  blood-stained  steps  dragged  on 

Her  foul  and  wounded  train ;  and  men 

Were  trampled  and  deceived  again. 

And  words  and  shows  again  could  bind 

The  wailing  tribes  of  humankind 

In  scorn  and  famine.     Fire  and  blood 

Raged  round  the  raging  multitude. 

To  fields  remote  by  tyrants  sent 

To  be  the  scorned  instrument. 

With  wliich  they  drag  from  mines  of  gore 

The  chains  their  slaves  yet  ever  wore ; 

And  in  the  streets  men  met  each  other, 

And  by  old  altars  and  in  halls, 

And  smiled  again  at  festivals. 

But  each  man  found  in  his  heart's  brother 

Cold  cheer;  for  all,  though  half  deceived. 

The  outworn  creeds  again  believed, 

And  the  same  round  anew  began, 

Which  the  weary  world  yet  ever  ran. 


Many  then  wept,  not  tears,  ])ut  gall. 

Within  their  hearts,  like  drops  which  fall 

Wasting  the  fountain-stone  away. 

And  in  that  dark  and  evil  day 

Did  all  desires  and  thoughts,  that  claim 

Men's  care — ambition,  friendship,  fame, 

IjOvc,  lio])e,  though  ho]ie  was  now  despair — 

Indue  the  coloms  of  this  change. 

As  from  the  all-surrounding  air 

The  earth  takes  hues  obscure  and  strange, 

When  storm  and  earthquake  linger  there. 

And  so,  my  fiiend,  it  then  befell 
To  many,  most  to  Lionel, 
Whose  hope  was  like  the  life  of  youth 
Within  him,  and  when  dead,  became 
A  spirit  of  unresting  flame. 
Which  goaded  him  in  his  distress 
Over  the  world's  vast  wilderness. 
Three  years  he  left  his  native  land. 
And  on  the  fourth,  when  he  returned. 
None  knew  him :  he  was  stricken  deep 
With  some  disease  of  mind,  and  turned 
Into  aught  unlike  Lionel. 
On  him — on  whom,  did  he  pause  in  sleep, 
Serenest  smiles  were  wont  to  keep. 
And,  did  he  wake,  a  winged  band 
Of  bright  persuasions,  which  had  fed 
On  his  sweet  lips  and  liquid  eyes. 
Kept  their  swift  pinions  half  outspread, 
To  do  on  men  his  least  command — 
On  him,  whom  once  'twas  paradise 
Even  to  behold,  now  miseiy  lay ; 
In  his  own  heart  'twas  merciless. 
To  all  things  else  none  may  express 
Its  innocence  and  tenderness. 

'Twas  said  that  he  had  refuge  sought 

In  love  from  his  unquiet  thought 

In  distant  lands,  and  been  deceived 

By  some  strange  show ;  for  there  were  found. 

Blotted  with  tears,  as  those  relieved 

By  their  own  words  are  wont  to  do. 

These  mournful  verses  on  the  ground, 

By  all  who  read  them  blotted  too. 

"  How  am  I  changed !  my  hopes  were  once  like 

fire: 
I  loved,  and  I  believed  that  life  was  love. 
How  am  I  lost !  on  wings  of  swift  desire 
Among  Heaven's  winds  my  spirit  once  did  move. 
I  slept,  and  silver  dreams  did  aye  inspire 
My  liquid  sleep.     I  woke,  and  did  approve 
All  nature  to  my  heart,  and  thought  to  make 
A  paradise  of  earth  for  one  sweet  sake. 
I  love,  but  I  believe  in  love  no  more  : 
I  feel  desire,  but  hope  not.     O,  from  sleep 
Most  vainly  must  my  weary  brain  implore 
Its  long-lost  flattery  now.     I  wake  to  weep. 
And  sit  through  the  long  day  gnawing  the  core 
Of  my  bitter  heart,  and,  like  a  miser,  keep. 
Since  none  in  what  I  feel  take  pain  or  pleasure. 
To  my  own  soul  its  self-consuming  treasure." 

He  dwelt  beside  me  near  the  sea ; 
And  oft  in  evening  did  we  meet. 


238 


POEMS    WRITTEN    IN    18  18. 


When  the  waves,  beneath  the  starlight,  flee 

O'er  the  yellow  sands  with  silver  feet. 

And  talked.     Our  talk  was  sad  and  sweet, 

Till  slowly  from  his  mien  there  passed 

The  desolation  which  it  spoke  ; 

And  smiles, — as  when  the  lightning's  blast 

H;is  parched  some  heaven-delighting  oak, 

The  next  spring  shows  leaves  pale  and  rare, 

But  like  flowers  delicate  and  fair. 

On  its  rent  boughs — again  arrayed 

His  countenance  in  tender  light: 

His  words  grew  subtle  lire,  which  made 

The  air  his  hearers  breathed  delight : 

His  motions,  like  the  winds,  were  free, 

Which  bend  the  bright  grass  gracefully, 

Then  fade  away  in  circlets  faint  ; 

And  winged  Hope,  on  which  upborne 

His  soul  seemed  hovering  in  his  eyes. 

Like  some  bright  spirit  newly-horn 

Floating  amid  the  sunny  skies. 

Sprang  forth  from  his  rent  heart  anew. 

Yet  o'er  his  talk,  and  looks,  and  mien. 

Tempering  their  loveliness  too  keen, 

Past  wo  its  shadow  backward  threw. 

Till  like  an  exhalation,  spread 

From  flowers  half  drunk  with  evening  dew. 

They  did  become  infectious  :  sweet 

And  subtle  mists  of  sense  and  thought 

Which  wrapt  us  soon,  when  we  might  meet. 

Almost  from  our  own  looks,  and  aught 

The  wide  world  holds.     And  so,  his  mind 

Was  healed,  while  mine  grew  sick  with  fear : 

For  ever  now  his  health  declined, 

Like  some  frail  bark  which  cannot  bear 

The  impulse  of  an  altered  wind. 

Though  prosperous ;  and  my  heart  grew  full 

'Mid  its  new  joy  of  a  new  care  : 

For  his  cheek  became,  not  pale,  but  fair. 

As  rose-o'ershadowed  lilies  are  ; 

And  soon  his  deep  and  sunny  hair, 

In  this  alone  less  beautiful. 

Like  grass  in  tombs  grew  wild  and  rare. 

The  blood  in  his  translucent  veins 

Beat,  not  like  animal  life,  but  love 

Seemed  now  its  sullen  springs  to  move. 

When  life  had  failed,  and  all  its  pains ; 

And  sudden  sleep  would  seize  him  oft 

Like  death,  so  calm,  but  that  a  tear, 

His  pointed  eyelashes  between, 

Would  gather  in  the  light  serene 

Of  smiles,  whose  lustre  briglit  and  soft 

Beneath  lay  undulating  there. 

His  breath  was  like  inconstant  flame. 

As  eagerly  it  went  and  came ; 

And  I  hung  o'er  him  in  his  sleep. 

Till,  like  an  image  in  the  hike 

Which  rains  disturb,  my  tears  would  break 

The  shadow  of  that  slumber  deep; 

Then  he  would  bid  me  not  to  weep, 

And  say,  with  flattery  false,  yet  sweet. 

That  death  and  he  could  never  meet. 

If  I  would  never  part  with  him. 

And  so  we  loved,  and  did  unite 

All  that  in  us  was  yet  divided  : 

For  when  he  said,  that  many  a  rite, 


By  men  to  bind  but  once  provided. 
Could  not  be  shared  by  him  and  me, 
Or  they  would  kill  him  in  their  glee, 
I  shuddered,  and  then  laughing  said, 
"  We  will  have  rites  our  faith  to  bind. 
But  our  church  shall  be  the  starry  night, 
Our  altar  the  grassy  earth  outspread, 
And  our  priest  the  nmttcring  wind." 

'Twas  sunset  as  I  spoke  :  one  star 

Had  scarce  burst  forth,  when  from  afar 

The  ministers  of  misrule  sent, 

Seized  upon  Lionel,  and  bore 

His  chained  limbs  to  a  dreary  tower. 

In  the  midst  of  a  city  far  and  wide. 

For  he,  they  said,  from  his  mind  had  bent 

Against  their  gods  keen  blasphemy. 

For  which,  though  his  soul  nmst  roasted  be 

In  hell's  red  lakes  immortally. 

Yet  even  on  earth  must  he  abide 

The  vengeance  of  their  slaves — a  trial, 

I  think,  men  call  it.     What  avail 

Are  prayers  and  tears,  which  chase  denial 

From  the  fierce  savage,  nursed  in  hate  1 

What  the  knit  soul  that  pleading  and  pale 

Makes  wan  the  quivering  cheek,  which  late 

It  painted  with  its  own  delight? 

We  were  divided.     As  I  could, 

I  stilled  the  tingling  of  my  blood, 

And  followed  him  in  their  despite. 

As  a  widow  follows,  pale  and  wild. 

The  murderers  and  corse  of  her  only  child; 

And  when  we  came  to  tlie  prison-door, 

And  I  prayed  to  share  his  dungeon  floor 

With  prayers  which  rarely  have  been  spurned. 

And  when  men  drove  me  forth  and  I 

Stared  with  blank  frenzy  on  the  sky, 

A  farewell  look  of  love  he  turned. 

Half-calming  me  ;  then  gazed  awhile, 

As  if  through  that  black  and  massy  pile. 

And  through  the  crowd  around  him  there, 

And  through  the  dense  and  murky  air. 

And  the  thronged  streets,  he  did  espy 

What  poets  knew  and  prophecy  ; 

And  said,  with  voice  that  made  them  shiver, 

And  clung  like  music  in  my  brain. 

And  which  the  nmte  walls  spoke  again 

Prolonging  it  with  deepened  strain — 

"  Fear  not  the  tyrants  shall  rule  for  ever. 

Or  the  priests  of  the  bloody  faith  ; 

They  stand  on  th(>  brink  of  that  mighty  river, 

Whose  waves  they  have  tainted  with  death  : 

It  is  fed  from  the  depths  of  a  thousand  dells. 

Around  them  it  foams,  and  rages,  and  swells. 

And  their  swords  and  their  sceptres  I  floating  see. 

Like  wrecks,  in  the  surge  of  eternity." 

I  dwelt  beside  the  prison  gate, 

And  the  strange  crowd  that  out  and  in 

Passed,  some,  no  doubt,  with  mine  own  fate. 

Might  have  fretted  me  with  its  ceaseless  din, 

But  the  fever  of  care  was  louder  within. 

Soon,  but  too  late,  in  penitence 

Or  fear,  his  foes  released  him  thence : 


ROSALIND    AND    HELEN. 


239 


I  saw  his  thin  and  languid  form, 

As  leaning;  on  the  jailer's  arm, 

Whose  hardened  eyes  grew  moist  the  while, 

To  meet  his  nmtc  and  faded  smile, 

And  hcarliis  words  of  kind  farewell. 

He  tottered  forth  from  his  damp  cell. 

Many  had  never  wept  before, 

From  whom  fiist  tears  then  gushed  and  fell : 

Many  will  relent  no  more, 

Who  sobbed  like  infants  then  ;  ay,  all 

Who  thronged  the  prison's  stony  hall, 

The  rulers  of  the  slaves  of  law 

Felt  with  a  new  surprise  and  awe 

That  they  were  human,  till  strong  shame 

Made  them  again  become  the  same. 

The  prison  bloodhounds,  huge  and  grim. 

From  human  looks  the  infection  caught, 

And  fondly  erouohod  and  fowncd  on  him; 

And  men  have  heard  the  prisoners  say, 

M''ho  in  their  rotten  dungeons  lay. 

That  from  that  hour,  throughout  one  day, 

The  fierce  despair  and  hate,  which  kept 

Their  trampled  bosoms,  almost  slept : 

When,  like  twin-vultures,  they  hung  feeding 

On  each  heart's  wound,  wide  torn  and  bleeding, 

Because  their  jailer's  rule,  they  thought, 

Grew  merciful,  like  a  parent's  sway. 

I  know  not  how,  but  we  were  free : 

And  Lionel  sate  alone  with  me. 

As  the  carriage  drove  through  the  streets  apace ; 

And  we  looked  upon  each  other's  face  ; 

And  the  blood  in  our  lingers  intertwined 

Ran  like  the  thoughts  of  a  single  mind. 

As  the  swift  emotions  went  and  came 

Through  the  veins  of  each  united  frame. 

So  through  the  long  long  streets  we  past 

Of  the  million-peopled  city  vast; 

Which  is  that  desert,  where  each  one  '     • 

Seeks  his  mate  yet  is  alone. 

Beloved,  and  sought  and  mourned  of  none; 

Until  the  clear  blue  sky  was  seen, 

And  the  grassy  meadows  bright  and  green, 

And  then  I  sunk  in  his  embrace, 

Enclosing  there  a  mighty  space 

Of  love  :  and  so  we  travelled  on  *■ 

By  woods  and  fields  of  yellow  flowers, 

And  towns,  and  villages,  and  towers. 

Day  after  day  of  happy  hours. 

It  was  the  azure  time  of  June, 

When  the  skies  are  deep  in  the  stainless  noon. 

And  the  warm  and  fitful  breezes  shake 

The  fresh  green  leaves  of  the  hedgerow  brier ; 

And  there  were  odours  then  to  make 

The  very  breath  we  did  respire 

A  liquid  element,  whereon 

Our  spirits,  like  delighted  things 

That  walk  the  air  on  subtle  wings. 

Floated  and  mingled  far  away, 

'Mid  the  warm  winds  of  the  sunny  day. 

And  when  the  evening  star  came  forth 

Above  the  curve  of  the  new  bent  moon, 

And  light  and  sound  ebbed  from  the  earth, 

Like  the  tide  of  the  full  and  weary  sea 

To  the  depths  of  its  own  tranquillity, 


Our  natures  to  its  own  repose 

Did  the  earth's  breathless  sleep  attune  : 

Like  flowers,  which  on  each  other  close 

Their  languid  leaves  when  daylight's  gone, 

We  lay,  till  new  emotions  came. 

Which  seemed  to  make  each  mortal  frame 

One  soul  of  interwoven  flame, 

A  life  in  life,  a  second  birth. 

In  worlds  diviner  far  than  earth. 

Which,  like  two  strains  of  harmony 

That  mingle  in  the  silent  sky, 

Then  slowly  disunite,  past  by 

And  left  the  tenderness  of  tears, 

A  soft  oblivion  of  all  fears, 

A  sweet  sleep :  so  we  travelled  on 

I'ill  we  came  to  the  home  of  Lionel, 

Among  the  mountains  wild  and  lone. 

Beside  the  hoary  western  sea. 

Which  near  the  verge  of  the  echoing  shore 

The  massy  forests  shadowed  o'er. 

The  ancient  steward,  with  hair  all  hoar, 

As  we  alighted,  wept  to  see 

His  master  changed  so  fearfully; 

And  the  old  man's  sobs  did  waken  me 

From  my  dream  of  unrcmaining  gladness  ; 

The  truth  flashed  o'er  me  like  quick  madness 

When  I  looked,  and  saw  that  there  was  death 

On  Lionel :  yet  day  by  day 

He  lived,  till  fear  grew-  hope  and  faith. 

And  in  my  soul  I  dared  to  say. 

Nothing  so  bright  can  pass  away: 

Death  is  dark,  and  foul,  and  dull. 

But  he  is — 0  how  beautiful ! 

Yet  day  by  day  he  grew  more  weak. 

And  his  sweet  voice,  when  he  might  speak. 

Which  ne'er  was  loud,  became  more  low ; 

And  the  light  which  flashed  through  his  waxen 

cheek 
Grew  faint,  as  the  roselike  hues  which  flow 
From  sunset  o'er  the  Alpine  snow : 
And  death  seemed  not  like  death  in  him. 
For  the  spirit  of  life  o'er  every  limb 
Lingered,  a  mist  of  sense  and  thought. 
When  the  summer  wind  faint  odours  brought 
From  fountain  flowers,  even  as  it  passed. 
His  cheek  would  change,  as  the  noonday  sea 
Which  the  dying  breeze  sweeps  fitfully. 
If  but  a  cloud  the  sky  o'ercast. 
You  might  see  his  colour  come  and  go, 
And  the  softest  strain  of  music  made 
Sweet  smiles,  yet  sad,  arise  and  fade 
Amid  the  dew  of  his  tender  eyes ; 
And  the  breath,  with  intermitting  flow, 
Made  his  pale  lips  quiver  and  part. 
You  might  hear  the  beatings  of  his  heart. 
Quick,  but  not  strong ;  and  with  my  tresses 
When  oft  he  pinyfully  would  bind 
In  the  bowers  of  mossy  lonelinesses 
Ilis  neck,  and  win  me  so  to  mingle 
In  the  sweet  depth  of  woven  caresses. 
And  our  faint  limbs  were  intertwined, 
Alas  !  the  unquiet  life  did  tingle 
From  mine  own  heart  through  every  vein, 
Like  a  captive  in  dreams  of  liberty. 


240 


POEMS    WRITTEN    IN    1818. 


Who  beats  the  walls  of  his  stony  cell. 

But  his,  it  seemed  already  free, 

Like  the  shadow  of  fire  surrounding  me ! 

On  my  faint  eyes  and  limbs  did  dwell 

That  spirit  as  it  passed,  till  soon, 

As  a  frail  cloud  wandering  o'er  the  moon, 

Beneath  its  light  invisible, 

Is  seen  when  it  folds  its  gray  wings  again 

To  alight  on  midnight's  dusky  plain,  . 

I  lived  and  saw,  and  the  gathering  soul 

Passed  from  beneath  that  strong  control, 

And  I  fell  on  a  life  which  was  sick  with  fear 

Of  all  the  wo  tliat  now  I  bear. 

Amid  a  bloomless  myrtle  wood, 

On  a  green  and  sea-girt  promontory, 

Not  far  from  where  we  dwelt,  there  stood 

In  record  of  a  sweet  sad  story. 

An  altar  and  a  temple  bright 

Circled  by  steps,  and  o'er  the  gate 

Was  sculptured,  "  To  Fidelity  ;" 

And  in  the  shrine  an  image  sate. 

All  veiled  :  but  there  was  seen  the  light 

Of  smiles,  which  faintly  could  express 

A  mingled  pain  and  tenderness. 

Through  that  ethereal  drapery. 

The  left  hand  held  the  head,  the  right — 

Beyond  the  veil,  beneath  the  skin. 

You  might  see  the  nerves  quivering  within — 

Was  forcing  the  point  of  a  barbed  dart 

Into  its  side-convulsing  heart. 

An  unskilled  hand,  yet  one  informed 

With  genius,  had  the  marble  warmed 

With  that  pathetic  life.     This  tale 

It  told:  A  dog  had  from  the  sea. 

When  the  tide  was  raging  fearfully, 

Dragged  Lionel's  mother,  weak  and  pale, 

Then  died  beside  her  on  the  sand. 

And  she  that  temple  thence  had  planned; 

But  it  was  Lionel's  own  hand 

Had  wrought  the  image.     Each  new  moon 

That  lady  did,  in  this  lone  fane, 

The  rites  of  a  religion  sweet. 

Whose  god  was  in  her  heart  and  brain : 

The  seasons'  loveliest  flowers  were  strewn 

On  the  marble  floor  beneath  her  feet. 

And  she  brought  crowns  of  sea-buds  white, 

Whose  odonr  is  so  sweet  and  faint, 

And  weeds,  like  branching  chrysolite, 

Woven  in  devices  fine  and  quaint. 

And  tears  from  her  Ijrown  eyes  did  stain 

The  altar  :  need  but  look  upon 

That  dying  statue,  fair  and  wan, 

If  tears  should  cease,  to  weep  again : 

And  rare  Arabian  odours  came. 

Through  the  myrtle  copses,  steaming  thence 

From  the  hissing  frankincense, 

Whose  smoke,  wool-white  as  ocean  foam, 

Hung  in  dense  •flocks  beneath  the  dome, 

That  ivorv"  dome,  whose  azure  night 

With  golden  stars,  like  heaven,  was  bright 

O'er  the  split  cedars'  pointed  flame ; 

And  the  lady's  harp  would  kindle  there 

The  melody  of  an  old  air, 

Softer  than  sleep ;  the  villagers 


Mixed  their  religion  up  with  hers. 
And  as  they  listened  round,  shed  tears. 

One  eve  he  led  me  to  this  fane: 

Daylight  on  its  last  purple  cloud 

Was  lingering  gray,  and  soon  her  strain 

The  nightingale  began  ;  now  loud, 

Climbing  in  circles  the  windless  sky. 

Now  dying  music  ;  suddenly 

'Tis  scattered  in  a  thousand  notes. 

And  now  to  the  hushed  ear  it  floats 

Like  field-smells  known  in  infancy, 

Then  falling,  soothes  the  air  again. 

We  sate  within  that  temple  lone. 

Pavilioned  round  with  Parian  stone  : 

His  mother's  harp  stood  near,  and  oft 

I  had  awakened  music  soft 

Amid  its  wires:  the  nightingale 

Was  pausing  in  her  heaven-taught  tale  : 

"  Now  drain  the  cup,"  said  Lionel, 

"  Which  the  poet-bird  has  crowned  so  well 

With  the  wine  of  her  bright  and  liquid  song  ! 

Hcardst  thou  not  sweet  words  among 

That  heaven-resounding  minstrelsy ! 

Heardst  thou  not,  that  those  who  die 

Awake  in  a  world  of  ecstacy  1 

That  love,  when  limbs  are  interwoven. 

And  sleep,  when  the  night  of  life  is  cloven. 

And  thought,  to  the  world's  dim  boundaries  clinging. 

And  music,  when  one  beloved  is  singing, 

Is  death  ?     Let  us  drain  right  joyously 

The  cup  which  the  sweet  bird  fills  for  me." 

He  paused,  and  to  my  lips  he  bent 

His  own  :  like  spirit  his  words  went 

Through  all  my  limbs  with  the  speed  of  fire 

And  his  keen  eyes,  glittering  through  mine, 

Filled  me  with  the  flame  divine. 

Which  in  their  orbs  was  burning  far. 

Like  the  light  of  an  unmeasured  star. 

In  the  sky  of  midnight  dark  and  deep : 

Yes,  'twas  his  soul  that  did  inspire 

Sounds,  which  my  skill  could  ne'er  awaken ; 

And  first,  I  felt  my  fingers  sweep 

The  harp,  and  a  long  quivering  cry 

Burst  from  my  lips  in  symphony  : 

The  dusk  and  solid  air  was  shaken. 

As  swift  and  swifter  the  notes  came 

From  my  touch,  that  wandered  lilce  quick  flame, 

And  from  my  bosom,  labouring 

With  some  unutterable  thing : 

The  awful  sound  of  my  own  voice  made 

My  faint  lips  tremble  ;  in  some  mood 

Of  wordless  thought  Lionel  stood 

So  pale,  that  even  beside  his  cheek 

The  snowy  column  from  its  shade 

Caught  whiteness  :  yet  his  countenance 

Raised  upward,  burned  with  radiance 

Of  spirit-piercing  joy,  whose  light, 

Like  the  moon  stniorgling  through  the  night 

Of  whirlwind-rifted  clouds,  did  l)reak 

\\'ilh  beams  that  might  not  be  confined, 

I  paused,  but  soon  his  gestures  kindled 
New  power,  as  by  the  moving  wind 


ROSALIND    AND    HELEN. 


241 


The  waves  are  lifted,  and  my  song 

To  low  soft  notes  now  changed  and  dwindled, 

And  from  the  t\vinklin<^  wires  among, 

My  languid  lingers  drew  and  flung 

Circles  of  life-dissolving  sound, 

Yet  faint ;  in  aery  rings  they  honnd 

My  Lionel,  who,  as  every  strain 

Grew  fainter  but  more  sweet,  his  mien 

Sunk  with  the  sound  relaxedly  ; 

And  slowly  now  he  turned  to  me, 

As  slowly  faded  from  his  face 

That  awful  joy:  with  looks  serene 

He  was  soon  drawn  to  my  embrace, 

And  my  wild  song  then  died  away 

In  murnuirs :  words,  I  dare  not  sa}'. 

We  mixed,  and  On  his  lips  mine  fed 

Till  they  methought  felt  still  and  cold: 

"  What  is  it  with  thee,  love  ?"  I  said  ; 

No  word,  no  look,  no  motion !  yes. 

There  was  a  change,  but  spare  to  guess, 

Nor  let  that  moment's  hope  be  told. 

I  looked,  and  knew  that  he  was  dead, 

And  fell,  as  the  eagle  on  the  plain 

Falls  when  life  deserts  her  brain. 

And  the  mortal  lightning  is  veiled  again. 

O  that  I  were  now  dead  !  but  such, 

Did  they  not,  love,  demand  too  much, 

Those  dying  murmurs  1      He  forbad. 

0  that  I  once  again  were  mad  ! 

And  yet,  dear  Rosalind,  not  so. 

For  I  would  live  to  share  thy  wo. 

Sweet  boy  !  did  I  forget  thee  too  ] 

Alas,  we  know  not  what  to  do 

When  we  spealc  words. 

No  memory  more 
Is  in  my  mind  of  that  sea-shore. 
Madness  came  on  me,  and  a  troop 
Of  misty  shapes  did  seem  to  sit 
Beside  me,  on  a  vessel's  poop. 
And  the  clear  north-wind  was  driving  it. 
Then  I  heard  strange  tongues,  and  saw  strange 

flowers. 
And  the  stars  methought  grew  unlike  ours, 
And  the  azure  sky  and  the  stormless  sea 
Made  me  believe  that  I  had  died. 
And  w'aked  in  a  world  which  was  to  me 
Drear  hell,  though  heaven  to  all  beside. 
Then  a  dead  sleep  fell  on  my  mind. 
Whilst  animal  life  many  long  years 
Had  rescued  fi-om  a  chasm  of  tears ; 
And  when  I  woke,  I  wept  to  find 
That  the  same  lady,  bright  and  wise, 
With  silver  locks  and  quick  brown  eyes, 
The  mother  of  my  Lionel, 
Had  tended  me  in  my  distress. 
And  died  some  months  before.     Nor  less 
Wonder,  but  far  more  peace  and  joy, 
Brought  in  that  hour  my  lovely  boy  ; 
For  through  that  trance  my  soul  had  well 
The  impress  of  thy  being  kept; 
And  if  I  waked,  or  if  I  slept. 
No  doubt,  though  memory  faithless  be, 
Thy  image  ever  dwelt  on  me ; 
And  thus,  0  Lionel !  like  thee 
.SI 


Is  our  sweet  child.     'Tis  sure  most  strange 
I  knew  not  of  .so  great  a  change, 
As  tlial  which  gave  him  birth,  who  now 
Is  all  the  solace  of  my  wo. 

That  Lionel  great  wealth  had  left 
By  will  to  me,  and  that  of  all 
The  ready,  lies  of  law  bereft, 
My  child  and  me  might  well  befall. 
But  let  me  think  not  of  the  scorn. 
Which  from  the  meanest  I  have  borne, 
When,  for  my  child's  beloved  sake, 
I  mixed  with  slaves,  to  vindicate 
The  very  laws  themselves  do  make : 
Let  me  not  say  scorn  is  my  fate, 
Lest  I  be  proud,  sullering  the  same 
With  those  who  live  in  deathless  fame. 

She  ceased.. — "  Lo,  where  red  morning  through  the 

woods 
Is  burning  o'er  the  dew !"  said  Rosalind. 
And  with  these  words  they  rose,  and  towards  the 

flood 
Of  the  blue  lake,  beneath  the  leaves  now  wind 
With  equal  steps  and  fingers  intertwined : 
Thence  to  a  lonely  dwelling,  where  the  shore 
Is  shadov^ed  with  rocks,  and  cypresses 
Cleave  with  their  dark  green  cones  the  silent  skies. 
And  with  their  shadows  the  clear  depths  below. 
And  where  a  little  terrace  from  its  bowers. 
Of  blooming  myrtle  and  feint  lemon-flowers, 
Scatters  its  sense-dissolving  fragrance  o'er 
The  liquid  marble  of  the  windless  lake ; 
And  where  the  aged  forest's  limbs  look  hoar, 
Ll^nderthe  leaves  which  their  green  garments  make. 
They  cohie  :  'tis  Helen's  home,  and  clean  and  white. 
Like  one  which  tyrants  spare  on  our  own  land 
In  some  such  solitude,  its  casements  bright 
Shone  through  their  vine-leaves  in  the  morning  sun. 
And  even  within  'twas  scarce  like  Italy. 
And  when    she    saw  how  all    things   they  were 

planned. 
As  in  an  English  home,  dim  memory 
Di.sturbed  poor  Rosalind :  she  stood  as  one 
Whose  mind  is  where  his  body  cannot  be. 
Till  Helen  led  her  where  her  child  yet  slept. 
And  said,  "  Observe,  that  brow  was  Lionel's, 
Those  lips  were  his.  and  so  he  ever  kept 
One  arm  in  sleep,  pillowing  his  head  with  it. 
You  cannot  see  his  eyes,  they  are  two  wells 
Of  hquid  love  :  let  us  not  wake  him  yet." 
But  Rosalind  could  bear  no  more,  and  wept 
A  shower  of  burning  te.irs,  which  fell  upon 
His  face,  and  so  his  opening  lashes  shone 
With  tears  unlike  his  own,  as  he  did  leap 
In  sudden  wonder  from  his  innocent  sleep. 
So  Rosalind  and  Helen  lived  together 
Thenceforth,  changed  in  all  else,  yet  friends  again. 
Such  as  they  were,  when  o'er  the  mountain  heather 
They  wandered  in  their  youth,  through  sun  and 

rain. 
And  after  many  years,  for  human  things 
Change  even  like  the  ocean  and  the  wind. 
Her  daughter  was  restored  to  Rosalind, 
And  in  their  circle  thence  some  visituigs 
X 


242 


POEMS    WRITTEN    IN    1818. 


Of  joy  'mid  their  new  calm  would  intervene : 
A  lovely  child  she  was,  of  looks  serene, 
And  motions  which  o'er  things  indifierent  shed 
The  gfrace  and  gentleness  from  whence  thej'  came. 
And  Helen's  boy  grew  with  her,  and  they  fed 
From  the  same  flowers  of  thought,  until  each  mind 
Like  springs  wliicii  mingle  in  one  flood  became, 
And  in  their  union  soon  their  parents  saw 
The  shadow  of  the  peace  denied  to  them. 
And  Rosalind, — for  when  the  living  stem 
Is  cankered  in  its  heart,  the  tree  must  fall, — 
Died  ere  her  time ;  and  with  deep  grief  and  awe 
The  pale  survivors  followed  her  remains 
Beyond  the  region  of  dissolving  rains. 
Up  the  cold  mountain  she  was  wont  to  call 
Her  tomb  ;  and  on  Chiavenna's  precipice 
They  raised  a  pyramid  of  lasting  ice, 
Whose  polished  sides,  ere  day  had  yet  begun, 
Caught  the  first  glow^  of  the  unrisen  sun, 


The  last,  when  it  had  (sunk  ;  and  through  the  night 
The  charioteers  of  Arctos  wheeled  around 
Its  ghttcring  point,  as  seen  from  Helen's  home, 
Whose  sad  inhabitants  each  year  would  come, 
With  willing  steps  climbing  that  rugged  height. 
And  hang  long  locks  of  hair,  and  garlands  bound 
With   amaranth    flowers,  which,  in    the   cUme's 

despite. 
Filled  the  frorc  air  with  unaccustomed  hght : 
Such  flowers,  as  in  the  wintn,'  memory  bloom 
Of  one  friend  left,  adorned  that  frozen  tomb. 

Helen,  whose  spirit  was  of  softer  mould, 

Whose  suflerings  too  were  less,  death  slowlier  led 

Into  the  peace  of  his  dominion  cold: 

She  died  among  her  kindred,  being  old  ; 

And  know,  that  if  love  die  not  in  the  dead 

As  in  the  living,  none  of  mortal  kind 

Are  blest,  as  now  Helen  and  Rosahnd. 


LINES  WRITTEN  AMONG  THE  EUGANEAN  HILLS. 


MAN^T.a  green  isle  needs  must  be 

In  the  deep  wide  sea  of  misery. 

Or  the  mariner,  worn  and  wan, 

Never  thus  could  voyage  on 

Day  and  night,  and  night  and  day. 

Drifting  on  his  dreary  way, 

With  the  solid  darkness  black 

Closing  round  his  vessel's  track ; 

Whilst  above,  the  sunless  sky. 

Big  with  clouds,  hangs  heavily, 

And  behind  the  tempest  fleet 

Hurries  on  with  lightning  feet. 

Riving  sail,  and  cord,  and  plank. 

Till  the  ship  has  almost  drank 

Death  from  the  o'er-brimming  deep ; 

And  sinks  down,  down,  like  that  sleep 

When  the  dreamer  seems  to  be 

Weltering  through  eternity ; 

And  the  dim  low  line  before 

Of  a  dark  and  distant  shore 

Still  recedes,  as  ever  still 

Longing  with  divided  will ; 

But  no  power  to  seek  or  shun, 

He  is  ever  drifted  on 

O'er  the  unrcposing  wave, 

To  the  haven  of  the  grave. 

What,  if  there  no  friends  will  greet ; 

What,  if  there  no  heart  will  meet 

His  with  love's  impatient  beat; 

Wander  wheresoe'er  he  may. 

Can  he  dream  before  that  day 

To  find  refuge  from  distress 

In  firiendship's  smile,  in  love's  caress  1 


Then  'twill  wreak  him  little  wo    . 
Whether  such  there  be  or  no : 
Senseless  is  the  breast,  and  cold, 
Which  relenting  love  would  fold  ; 
Bloodless  are  the  veins  and  chill 
Which  the  pulse  of  pain  did  fill : 
Every  little  living  nerve 
That  from  bitter  words  did  swerve 
Round  the  tortured  lips  and  brow. 
Are  like  sapless  leaflets  now 
Frozen  upon  December's  bough. 

On  the  beach  of  a  northern  sea 

Which  tempests  shake  eternally. 

As  once  the  wretch  there  lay  to  sleep, 

Lies  a  solitary  heap, 

One  white  skull  and  seven  dry  bones. 

On  the  margin  of  the  stones, 

Where  a  few  gray  rushes  stand, 

Boundaries  of  the  sea  and  land : 

Nor  is  heard  one  voice  of  wail 

But  the  sea-mews,  as  they  sail 

O'er  the  billows  of  the  gale; 

Or  the  wiiirlwind  up  and  down 

Howling,  like  a  slaughtered  town, 

W"hen  a  king  in  glory  rides 

Through  the  pomp  of  fratricides  : 

Those  unburicd  bones  around 

There  is  many  a  mournful  sound; 

There  is  no  lament  for  him, 

Like  a  sunless  vapour,  dim, 

Who  once  clothed  with  life  and  thought 

What  now  moves  nor  murmurs  not. 


LINES    WRITTEN    AMONG    THE    EUGANEAN    HILLS. 


243 


Ay,  many  flowering  islands  lie 

In  the  waters  of  wide  Agony  : 

To  such  a  OBf  this  morn  was  led 

My  hark,  hy  soft  winds  ))ilotod. 

'Mid  the  mountains  Euganoan, 

I  stood  hstcning  to  the  pa;an 

W'itli  which  the  Icgioned  rooks  did  hail 

The  sun's  uprise  niajestical ; 

Gathering  round  with  wings  all  hoar, 

Tiirough  the  dewy  mist  they  soar 

I^ike  gray  shades,  till  the  eastern  heaven 

Bursts,  and  then,  as  clouds  of  even, 

Flecked  with  fire  and  azure,  lie 

In  the  unfathomahlc  sky, 

So  their  plumes  of  purple  grain, 

Starred  with  drops  of  golden  rain, 

Gleam  ahove  the  sunlight  woods, 

As  in  silent  multitudes 

On  the  morning's  fitful  gale 

Through  the  broken  mist  they  sail ; 

And  the  vapours  cloven  and  gleaming 

Follow  down  the  dark  steep  streaming. 

Till  all  is  bright,  and  clear,  and  still, 

Round  the  solitary  hill. 

Beneath  is  spread  like  a  green  sea 
The  wavelcss  plain  of  Lombardy, 
Bounded  by  the  vaporous  air. 
Islanded  by  cities  fair ;  ^       - 

Underneath  day's  azure  eyes. 
Ocean's  nursling,  Venice  lies, — 
A  peopled  labyrinth  of  walls, 
Amphitrite's  destined  halls, 
Which  her  hoary  sire  now  paves 
With  his  blue  and  beaming  waves. 
Lo  !  the  sun  upsprings  behind. 
Broad,  red,  radiant,  half-reclined 
On  the  level  quivering  line 
Of  the  waters  crystalline  ; 
And  before  that  chasm  of  light. 
As  within  a  furnace  bright. 
Column,  tower,  and  dome,  and  spire. 
Shine  like  obelisks  of  fire, 
Pointing  with  inconstant  motion 
From  the  altar  of  dark  ocean 
To  the  sapphire-tinted  skies ; 
As  the  flames  of  sacrifice 
From  the  marble  shrines  did  rise 
As  to  pierce  the  dome  of  gold 
Where  Apollo  spoke  of  old. 

Sun-girt  City  !  thou  hast  been 
Ocean's  child,  and  then  his  queen; 
Now  is  come  a  darker  day, 
And  thou  soon  must  be  his  prey. 
If  the  power  that  raised  thee  here 
Hallow  so  thy  watery  bier. 
A  less  drear  ruin  then  than  now, 
With  thy  conquest  branded  brow 
Stooping  to  the  slave  of  slaves 
From  thy  throne  among  the  waves, 
Wilt  thou  be,  when  the  sea-mew 
Flics,  as  once  before  it  flew. 
O'er  thine  isles  depopulate, 
And  all  is  in  its  ancient  state. 


Save  where  many  a  palace-gate 

With  green  sea-flowers  overgrown 
Like  a  rock  of  ocean's  own, 
Top[)lcs  o'er  the  abandon'd  sea 
As  the  tides  change  sullenly. 
The  fisher  on  liis  watery  way, 
Wandering  at  the  close  of  day. 
Will  spread  his  sail  and  seize  his  oar, 
Till  he  pass  the  gloomy  shore, 
Lest  thy  dead  should,  from  their  sleep 
Bursting  o'er  the  starlight  deep. 
Lead  a  ra.\nd  mas(jue  of  death 
O'er  the  waters  of  his  path. 

Those  who  alone  thy  towers  behold 
Q\iivering  through  aerial  gold. 
As  I  now  behold  them  here. 
Would  imagine  not  they  were 
Sepulchres,  where  human  forms, 
Like  pollution-nourished  worms, 
To  the  coi-pse  of  greatness  cling, 
Murdered  and  now  mouldering: 
But  if  Freedom  should  awake 
In  her  omnipotence,  and  shake 
From  the  Celtic  Anarch's  hold 
All  the  keys  of  dungeons  cold. 
Where  a  hundred  cities  lie 
Chained  like  tliee,  ingloriously. 
Thou  and  all  thy  sister  band 
Miglit  odorn  this  sunny  land. 
Twining  memories  of  old  time 
With  new  virtues  more  subhme ; 
If  not,  perish  thou  and  they  ; 
Clouds  which  stain  truth's  rising  day 
By  her  sun  consumed  away. 
Earth  can  spare  ye ;  while  like  flowers, 
In  the  waste  of  years  and  hours. 
From  your  dust  new  nations  spring 
With  more  kindly  blossoming. 

Perish  !  let  there  only  be 
Floating  o'er  thy  heartless  sea, 
As  the  garment  of  thy  sky 
Clothes  the  world  immortally, 
One  remembrance,  more  sublime 
Than  the  tattered  pall  of  Time, 
Which  scarce  hides  thy  visage  wan: 
That  a  tempest-cleaving  swan 
Of  the  songs  of  Albion, 
Driven  from  his  ancestral  streams, 
By  the  might  of  evil  dreams. 
Found  a  nest  in  thee ;  and  Ocean 
Welcomed  him  with  such  emotion 
That  its  joy  grew  his,  and  sprung 
From  his  li{)s  like  music  flung 
O'er  a  mighty  thunder-fit, 
Chastening  terror :  what  though  yet 
Poesy's  unfailing  river, 
Whii-h  through  Albion  winds  for  ever. 
Lashing  with  melodious  wave 
Many  a  sacred  poet's  grave. 
Mourn  its  latest  nursling  fled  ! 
What  though  thou  with  all  thy  dead 
Scarce  can  for  this  fame  repay 
Aught  thine  own, — oh,  ratlier  say. 


244 


POEMS    WRITTEN    IN    18  18. 


Though  thy  sins  and  slaveries  foul 

Overcloud  a  sunlike  soul ! 

As  the  ghost  of  Homer  clings 

Round  Scamanders  wasting  springs ; 

As  divinest  8hakspcare's  might 

Fills  Avon  and  the  world  with  light, 

Like  omniscient  power,  which  he 

Imaged  'mid  mortality ; 

As  the  love  from  Petrarch's  urn, 

Yet  amid  yon  hills  doth  burn, 

A  quenchless  lamp,  by  which  the  heart 

Sees  things  unearthly  ;  so  thou  art, 

Mighty  spirit :  so  shall  be 

The  city  that  did  refuge  thee. 

Lo,  the  sun  floats  up  the  sky, 
Like  thought-winged  Liberty, 
Till  the  universal  light 
Seems  to  level  plain  and  height ; 
From  the  sea  a  mist  has  spread. 
And  the  beams  of  morn  lie  dead 
On  the  towers  of  Venice  now, 
Like  its  glory  long  ago. 
By  the  skirts  of  that  gray  cloud 
Many-domed  Padua  proud 
Stands,  a  peopled  sohtude, 
'Mid  the  harvest  shining  plain, 
\Micre  the  peasant  heaps  his  grain 
In  the  garner  of  his  foe. 
And  the  milkwhite  oxen  slow 
With  the  purple  vintage  strain, 
Heaped  upon  the  creaking  wain. 
That  the  brutal  Celt  may  swill 
Drunken  sleep  with  savage  will; 
And  the  sickle  to  the  sword 
Lies  unchanged,  though  many  a  lord, 
Like  a  weed  whose  shade  is  poison, 
Overgrows  this  region's  foison. 
Sheaves  of  whom  are  ripe  to  come 
To  destruction's  harvest-home  : 
Men  must  reap  the  things  tlioy  sow, 
Force  from  force  must  ever  flow. 
Or  worse  ;  but  'tis  a  bitter  wo 
That  love  or  reason  cannot  change 
The  despot's  rage,  the  slave's  revenge. 

Padua,  thou  within  whose  walls 
Those  mute  guests  at  festivals. 
Son  and  Mother,  Death  and  Sin, 
Played  at  dice  for  Ezzelin, 
Till  Death  cried,  "  I  win,  I  win  !" 
And  Sin  cursed  to  lose  the  wager. 
But  Death  j)romised,  to  assuage  her, 
That  he  would  petition  for 
Her  to  be  made  Vice-Emperor, 
When  the  destined  years  were  o'er, 
Over  all  between  the  Po 
And  the  eastern  Alpine  snow, 
Under  the  mighty  Austrian. 
Sin  smiled  so  as  Sin  only  can, 
And  since  that  time,  ay,  long  before. 
Both  have  ruled  from  shore  to  shore, 
That  incestuous  pair,  who  follow 
Tyrants  as  the  sun  the  swallow, 
As  Repentance  follows  Crime, 
And  as  changes  follow  Time. 


In  ^thine  iialls  the  lamp  of  learning, 

Padua,  now  no  more  is  burning ; 

Like  a  meteor,  whose  wil(^  way 

Is  lost  over  the  grave  of  day. 

It  gleams  betrayed  and  to  betray : 

Once  remotest  nations  came 

To  adore  that  sacred  flame. 

When  it  lit  not  many  a  hearth 

On  this  cold  and  gloomy  earth ; 

Now  new  fires  from  Antique  light 

Spring  beneath  the  wide  world's  might; 

But  their  spark  hes  dead  in  thee, 

Trampled  out  by  tyranny. 

As  the  Norway  woodman  quells, 

In  the  depth  of  piny  dells, 

One  light  flame  among  the  brakes. 

While  the  boundless  forest  shakes, 

And  its  mighty  trunks  are  torn 

By  the  fire  thus  lowly  born ; 

The  spark  beneath  his  feet  is  dead. 

He  starts  to  see  the  flames  it  fed 

Howling  through  the  darkened  sky 

With  a  myriad  tongues  victoriously, 

And  sinks  down  in  fear :  so  thou, 

O  tyranny  !  beholdest  now 

Light  around  thee,  and  thou  hearest 

The  loud  flames  ascend,  and  fearest : 

Grovel  on  the  earth ;  ay,  hide 

In  the  dust  thy  purple  pride  ! 

Noon  descends  around  me  now : 
'Tis  the  noon  of  autumn's  glow. 
When  a  soft  and  purple  mist 
Like  a  vaporous  amethyst, 
Or  an  air-dissolved  star 
Mmgling  light  and  fragrance,  far 
From  the  curved  horizon's  bound 
To  the  point  of  heaven's  profound. 
Fills  the  overflowing  sky  ; 
And  the  plains  that  silent  lie 
Underneath ;  the  leaves  unsodden 
Where  the  infant  frost  has  trodden 
With  his  morning-winged  feet, 
Whose  bright  print  is  gleaming  yet ; 
And  the  red  and  golden  vines, 
Piercing  with  their  trellised  lines 
The  rough,  dark-skirted  wilderness; 
The  dun  and  bladed  grass  no  less. 
Pointing  from  this  hoary  tower 
In  the  windless  air;  the  flower 
Glimmering  at  my  feet ;  the  line 
Of  the  oUve-sandalled  Apennine 
In  the  south  dimly  islanded ; 
And  the  Alps,  whose  snows  are  spread 
High  between  the  clouds  and  sun ; 
And  of  living  things  each  one ; 
And  my  spirit,  which  so  long 
Darkened  this  swift  stream  of  song. 
Interpenetrated  lie 
By  the  glory  of  the  sky ; 
Be  it  love,  light,  harmony. 
Odour,  or  the  soul  of  all 
Which  from  heaven  like  dew  doth  fall. 
Or  the  mind  which  feeds  this  verse 
Peopling  the  lone  universe. 


LINES    WRITTEN    AMONG    THE    EUGANEAN    II  ILL  8. 


245 


Noon  descends,  and  after  noon 

Autumn's  evening  meets  me  soon, 

liOadiiig  the  infantine  moon, 

And  that  one  star,  whieli  to  her 

Ahnost  seems  to  minister 

Half  the  crimson  Ught  she  brings 

From  the  sunset's  radiant  springs: 

And  the  soft  dreams  of  the  morn 

(Which  Hke  winged  winds  had  borne 

To  that  silent  isle,  which  lies 

'Mid  remembered  agonies, 

The  frail  hark  of  this  lone  being.) 

Pass,  to  other  sutFerers  Hceiiig, 

And  its  ancient  pilot,  Pain, 

Sits  beside  the  helm  again. 


Other  flowering  isles  must  be 

In  the  sea  of  life  and  agony  : 

Other  spirits  float  and  flee 

O'er  that  gulf:  even  now,  perhaps, 

On  some  rock  the  wild  wave  wraps. 

With  folding  wings  they  waiting  sit 

For  my  bark,  to  pilot  it 

To  some  calm  and  blooming  cove, 

Where  for  me,  and  those  I  love,    , 

May  a  windless  bower  be  built. 

Far  from  passion,  pain,  and  guilt,    - 


In  a  dell  'mid  lawny  hills. 

Which  the  v^'ild  sea-murmur  fills, 

And  soft  sunshine,  and  the  sound 

Of  old  forests  echoing  round, 

And  tile  light  and  smell  divine 

Of  all  flowers  that  breathe  and  shine. 

We  may  live  so  happy  there. 

That  the  spirits  of  the  air, 

Envying  us.  may  even  entice 

To  our  healing  paradise 

The  jiolluting  multitude ; 

But  their  rage  would  be  subdued 

By  that  clime  divine  and  calm. 

And  the  winds  whose  wings  rain  balm 

On  the  uplifted  soul,  and  leaves 

Under  which  the  bright  sea  heaves ; 

While  each  breathless  interval 

In  their  whisperings  musical 

The  inspired  soul  supplies 

With  its  own  deep  melodies ; 

And  the  love  which  heals  all  strife 

Circling,  like  the  breath  of  life. 

All  things  in  that  sweet  abode 

With  its  own  mild  brotherhood. 

They,  not  it,  would  change ;  and  soon 

Every  sprite  beneath  the  moon 

Would  repent  its  envy  vain. 

And  the  earth  grow  young  again. 


246 


POEMS    WRITTEN    IN    1818. 


JULIAN  AND  MADDALO : 
^  Qlonucvsaliou. 


The  meadows  with  fresh  streams,  the  bees  with  thyme, 
The  goats  witli  the  green  leaves  of  budding  spring, 
Are  saturated  not — nor  Love  with  tears. 

Virgil's  Gallus. 


CorxT  Maddalo  is  a  Venetian  nobleman  of 
ancient  family  and  of  great  fortune,  who,  without 
mixing  much  in  the  society  of  his  countrymen,  re- 
sides chiefly  at  his  magnificent  palace  in  that  city. 
He  is  a  person  of  the  most  consummate  genius ; 
and  capable,  if  he  would  direct  his  energies  to 
such  an  end,  of  becoming  the  redeemer  of  his  de- 
graded country.  But  it  is  his  weakness  to  be 
proud :  he  derives,  from  a  comparison  of  his  own 
extraordinary  mind  with  the  dwarfish  intellects 
that  surround  him,  an  intense  apprehension  of  the 
nothingness  of  human  life,  His  passions  and  his 
powers  are  incomparably  greater  than  those  of 
other  men,  and,  instead  of  the  latter  ha\ing  been 
employed  in  curbing  the  former,  they  have  mu- 
tually lent  each  other  strength.  His  ambition  preys 
upon  itself,  for  want  of  objects  which  it  can  con- 
sider worthy  of  exertion.  I  say  that  Maddalo  is 
proud,  because  I  can  find  no  other  word  to  express 
the  concentred  and  impatient  feelings  which  con- 
sume him ;  but  it  is  on  his  own  hopes  and  affec- 
tions only  that  he  seems  to  trample,  for  in  social 
life  no  human  being  can  be  more  gentle,  patient, 
and  unassuming  than  Maddalo.  He  is  cheerful, 
frank,  and  witty.  His  more  serious  conversation 
is  a  sort  of  intoxication  ;  men  are  held  by  it  as  by 
a  spell.     He  has  travelled  much  ;  and  there  is  an 


inexpressible  charm  in  his  relation  of  his  adventures 
in  ditferent  countries. 

Julian  is  an  Englishman  of  good  family,  pas- 
sionately attached  to  those  philosophical  notions 
which  assert  the  power  of  man  over  his  own  mind, 
and  the  immense  improvements  of  which,  by  the 
extinction  of  certain  moral  superstitions,  human 
society  may  yet  be  susceptible.  Without  conceal- 
ing the  evil  in  the  world,  he  is  for  ever  speculating 
how  good  may  be  made  superior.  He  is  a  com- 
plete infidel,  and  a  scoffer  at  all  things  reputed 
holy  ;  and  Maddalo  takes  a  wicked  pleasure  in 
drawing  out  his  taunts  against  religion.  What 
Maddalo  thinks  on  these  matters  is  not  exactly 
known.  Julian,  in  spite  of  his  heterodox  opi- 
nions, is  conjectured  by  his  friends  to  possess 
some  good  qualities.  How  far  this  is  possible 
the  pious  reader  will  determine.  Juhan  is  rather 
serious. 

Of  the  Maniac  I  can  give  no  information.  He 
seems  by  his  own  account  to  have  been  disap- 
pointed in  love.  He  was  evidently  a  very  culti- 
vated and  amiable  person  when  in  his  right  senses. 
His  story,  told  at  length,  might  be  like  many  other 
stories  of  the  same  kind  :  the  unconnected  excla- 
mations of  his  agony  will  perhaps  be  found  a  suffi- 
cient comment  for  the  text  of  every  heart. 


I  noDE  one  evening  with  Count  Maddalo 

Upon  the  bank  of  land  which  breaks  the  flow 

Of  Ailria  towards  Venice  :  a  bare  strand 

Of  hillocks,  heaped  from  ever-shifting  sand, 

Matted  with  thistles  and  amphiluous  weeds, 

Such  as  from  earth's  embrace  the  salt  ooze  breeds, 

Is  this,  an  uninhabited  sea-side. 

Which  the  lone  fisher,  when  his  nets  are  dried, 

Abandons :  and  no  other  object  breaks 

The  waste,  but  one  dwarf  tree  and  some  few  stakes 

Broken  and  unrepaired,  and  the  tide  makes 

A  narrow  space  of  level  sand  thereon. 

Where  'twas  our  wont  to  ride  while  day  went  down. 

This  ride  was  my  delight.     I  love  all  waste 

And  solitary  places;  where  we  taste 

The  pleasure  of  believing  what  we  see 

Is  boundless,  as  we  wish  our  souls  to  be : 


And  .such  was  this  wide  ocean,  and  this  shore 
More  barren  than  its  billows:  and  yet  more 
Than  all,  with  a  remembered  friend  I  love 
To  ride  as  then  I  rode ; — for  the  winds  drove 
The  living  spray  along  the  sunny  air 
Into  our  faces ;  the  blue  heavens  were  bare, 
Stripped  to  their  depths  by  the  awakening  north ; 
And,  from  the  waves,  sound  like  delight  broke  forth 
Harmonizing  with  solitude,  and  sent 
Into  our  hearts  aerial  merriment. 

So,  as  we  rode,  we  talked ;  and  the  swift  thought, 
Winging  itself  with  laughter,  lingered  not, 
But  flew  from  brain  to  brain, — such  glee  was  ours, 
Charged  with  light  memories  of  remembered  hours. 
None  slow  enough  for  sadness:  till  we  came 
Homeward,  which  always  makes  the  spiiit  tame. 


JULIAN    AND    MADDALO. 


247 


This  day  had  been  cheerful  but  cold,  and  now 

The  sun  was  sinking,  and  the  wind  also. 

Our  talk  prcw  somewhat  serious,  as  may  be 

Talk  interrupted  with  such  raillery 

As  mocks  itself,  because  it  cannot  scorn 

The  thoughts  it  would  extinguish  : — 'twas  forlorn. 

Yet  pleasing  ;  sucii  as  once,  so  poets  tell, 

The  devils  held  within  the  dales  of  hell, 

Concerning  God,  freewill,  and  destiny. 

Of  all  that  Earth  has  been,  or  yet  may  be; 

All  that  vain  men  imagine  or  believe. 

Or  hope  can  paint,  or  sulTering  can  achieve, 

We  descanted;  and  I  (for  ever  still 

It  is  not  wise  to  make  the  best  of  ill  ?) 

Argued  against  despondency  ;  but  pride 

Made  my  companion  take  the  darker  side. 

The  sense  that  he  was  greater  than  his  kind 

Had  struck,  methinks,  his  eagle  spirit  bhnd 

By  gazing  on  its  own  exceeding  light. 

Meanwhile  the  sun  paused  ere  it  should  alight 

Over  the  horizon  of  the  mountains — Oh  ! 

How  beautiful  is  sunset,  when  the  glow 

Of  heaven  descends  upon  a  land  like  thee, 

Thou  paradise  of  exiles,  Italy  ! 

Thy    mountains,   seas,    and   vineyards,    and    the 

towers. 
Of  cities  they  encircle  ! — It  was  ours 
To  stand  on  thee,  beholding  it :  and  then, 
Just  where  we  had  dismounted,  the  Count's  men 
Were  wailing  for  us  with  the  gondola. 
As  those  who  pause  on  some  delightful  way. 
Though  bent  on  pleasant  pilgrimage,  we  stood 
Looking  upon  the  evening  and  the  flood. 
Which  lay  between  the  city  and  the  shore, 
Paved  with  the  image  of  the  sky  :  the  hoar 
And  airy  Alps,  towards  the  north,  appeared. 
Through  mist,  a  heaven-sustaining  bulwark,  reared 
Between  the  east  and  west ;  and  half  the  sky 
Was  roofed  with  clouds  of  rich  emblazonry, 
Dark  purple  at  the  zenith,  which  still  grew 
Down  the  steep  west  into  a  wondrous  hue 
Brighter  than  burning  gold,  even  to  the  rent 
Where  the  swift  sun  yet  paused  in  his  descent 
Among  the  many-folded  hills — they  were 
Those  famous  Euganean  hills,  which  bear. 
As  seen  from  Lido  through  the  harbour  piles, 
The  likeness  of  a  clump  of  peaked  isles — 
And  then,  as  if  the  earth  and  sea  had  been 
Dissolved  into  one  lake  of  fire,  were  seen 
Those  mountains  towering,  as  from  waves  of  flame, 
Around  the  vaporous  sun,  from  which  there  came 
The  inmost  puryile  spirit  of  light,  and  made 
Their  very  peaks  transparent.     "  Ere  it  fade," 
Said  my  companion,  "  I  will  show  you  soon 
A  better  station."     So  o'er  the  lagune 
He  glided  ;  and  from  the  funereal  bark 
I  leaned,  and  saw  the  city,  and  could  mark 
How  from  their  many  isles,  in  evening's  gleam, 
Its  temples  and  its  palaces  did  seem 
Like  fabrics  of  enchantment  piled  to  heaven. 
I  was  about  to  spi!ak,  when — "  We  are  even 
Now  at  the  point  I  meant,"  said  Maddalo, 
And  bade  the  gondolicri  cease  to  row. 
"Look,  Julian,  on  the  west,  and  listen  well 
If  you  hear  not  a  deep  and  heavy  bell." 


I  looked,  and  saw  between  us  and  the  sun 

A  building  on  an  island,  such  a  one 

As  age  to  age  might  add,  for  uses  vde, — • 

A  wiiidowless,  deformed,  and  drearj'  pile; 

And  on  the  toj)  an  open  tower,  where  hung 

A  bell,  which  in  the  radiance  swayed  and  swung. 

We  could  just  hear  its  coarse  iind  iron  tongue  : 

The  broad  sun  sank  behind  it,  and  it  tolled 

In  strong  and  black  relief — "What  we  behold 

Shall  be  the  madhouse  and  its  belfry  tower," — 

Said  Maddalo  ;  "  and  oven  at  this  hour, 

Those  who  may  cross  the  water  hear  that  bell. 

Which  calls  the  maniacs,  each  one  from  his  cell, 

To  vespers." — "  As  much  skill  as  need  to  pray. 

In  thanks  or  hope  for  their  dark  lot  have  they, 

To  their  stern  maker,"   I  replied. — "  (),  ho  ! 

You  talk  as  in  years  past,"  said  Maddalo. 

"  'Tis  strange  men  change  not.  You  were  ever  still 

Among  Christ's  fiock  a  perilous  infidel, 

A  wolf  for  the  meek  lambs  :  if  you  can't  swim, 

Beware  of  providence."     I  looked  on  him, 

But  the  gay  smile  had  faded  from  his  eye. 

"  And  such,"  he  cried,  "  is  our  mortality ; 

And  this  must  be  the  emblem  and  the  sign 

Of  what  should  be  eternal  and  divine  ; 

And  like  that  black  and  dreary  bell,  the  soul, 

Hung  in  a  heaven-illumined  tower,  must  toll 

Our  thoughts  and  our  desires  to  meet  below 

Round  the  rent  heart,  and  pray — as  madmen  do  : 

For  whati    they  know  not,  till  the  night  of  death. 

As  sunset  that  strange  vision,  severeth 

Our  memory  from  itself,  and  us  from  all 

We  sought,  and  yet  were  baffled."     I  recall 

The  sense  of  what  he  said,  although  I  mar 

The  force  of  his  expressions.     The  broad  star 

Of  day  meanwhile  had  sunk  behind  the  hill ; 

And  the  black  bell  became  invisible ; 

And  the  red  tower  looked  gray  ;  and  all  between, 

The  churches,  ships,  and  palaces,  were  seen 

Huddled  in  gloom';  into  the  purple  sea 

The  orange  hues  of  heaven  sunk  silently. 

We  hardly  spoke,  and  soon  the  gondola 

Conveyed  me  to  my  lodging  by  the  way. 

The  following  morn  was  rainy,  cold  and  dim : 
Ere  Maddalo  arose  I  called  on  him. 
And  whilst  I  waited  with  his  child  I  played ; 
A  lovelier  toy  sweet  Nature  never  made  ; 
A  serious,  subtle,  wild,  yet  gentle  being ; 
Graceful  without  design,  and  unforseeing  ; 
With  eyes — Oh  !  speak  not  of  her  eyes !  which 
Twin  mirrors  of  Italian  Heaven,  yet  gleam  [seem 
With  such  deep  meaning  as  we  never  sec 
But  in  the  human  countenance.     With  me 
She  was  a  special  favourite  :  I  had  nursed 
Her  fine  and  feeble  limbs,  when  she  came  first 
To  this  bleak  world  ;  and  yet  she  seemed  to  know 
On  second  sight  her  ancient  playfellow. 
Less  changed  than  she  was  by  six  months  or  so. 
For,  after  her  first  shyness  was  worn  out. 
We  sate  there,  rolling  billiard-balls  about, 
When  the  Count  entered.     Salutations  passed  ; 
"  The  words  you  spoke  last  night  might  well  have 
A  darkness  on  my  spirit : — if  man  be  [cast 

The  passive  thing  you  say,  L  should  not  see 


248 


POEMS    WRITTEN    IN    1818. 


Much  harm  in  the  religions  and  old  saws, 
(Though  /  niaj'  never  own  such  leaden  laws,) 
Which  break  a  teacliless  nature  to  the  yoke  : 
Mine  is  another  faith." — Thus  much  I  spoke, 
And,  noting  he  replied  not,  added — "  Sec 
This  lovely  child ;  blithe,  innocent,  and  free  ; 
She  spends  a  happy  time,  with  little  care  ; 
While  we  to  such  sick  thoughts  subjected  are, 
As  came  on  you  last  night.     It  is  our  will 
Which  thus  enchains  us  to  permitted  ill. 
We  might  be  otherwise  ;  we  might  be  all 
We  dream  of,  happy,  high,  majestical. 
Where  is  the  beauty,  love,  and  truth,  we  seek, 
But  in  our  minds !   And,  if  we  were  not  weak, 
Should  we  be  less  in  deed  than  in  desire  1" — 
— "Ay,  if  we  were  not  weak, — and  we  aspire, 
How  vainly  !  to  be  strong,"  said  Maddalo: 
"  You  talk  Utopian" — 

"  It  remains  to  know," 
I  then  rejoined,  "  and  those  who  try  may  find 
How  strong  the  chains  are  which  our  spirit  bind : 
Brittle  perchance  as  straw.     We  are  assured 
Much  may  be  conquered,  much  may  be  endured, 
Of  what  degrades  and  crushes  us.     We  know 
That  we  have  power  over  ourselves  to  do 
And  sutler — u-haf,  we  know  not  till  we  try ; 
But  something  nobler  than  to  live  and  die : 
So  taught  the  kings  of  old  philosophy. 
Who  reigned  before  reUgion  made  men  blind ; 
And  those  who  sutTer  with  their  suffering  kind, 
Yet  feel  this  faith,  rehgion." 

«  My  dear  friend," 
Said  Maddalo,  "  my  judgment  will  not  bend 
To  your  opinion,  though  I  think  you  might 
Make  such  a  system  refutation-tight. 
As  far  as  words  go.     I  knew  one  like  you, 
Who  to  this  city  came  some  months  ago. 
With  whom  I  argued  in  this  sort; — and  he 
Is  now  gone  mad — and  so  he  answered  me, 
Poor  fellow  ! — But  if  you  would  like  to  go. 
We'll  visit  him,  and  his  wild  talk  will  show 
How  vain  are  such  aspiring  theories." — 

"I  hope  to  prove  the  induction  otherwise, 
And  that  a  want  of  that  true  theory  still, 
Which  seeks  a  soul  of  goodness  in  things  ill, 
Or  in  himself  or  others,  has  thus  bowed 
His  being : — there  are  some  by  nature  proud. 
Who,  patient  in  all  else,  demand  but  this — 
To  love,  and  be  beloved  with  gentleness : — ■ 
And  being  scorned,  what  wonder  if  they  die 
Some  living  death  ?     This  is  not  destiny, 
But  man's  own  wilful  ill." 

As  thus  I  spoke, 
Servants  announced  the  gondola,  and  we 
Through  the  fast-falling  rain  and  high-wroughtsca 
Sailed  to  the  island  where  the  madhouse  stands. 
We  disembarked.     'J'he  clap  of  tortured  hands. 
Fierce  yells  and  bowlings,  and  lamcntings  keen, 
And  laughter  where  complaint  had  merrier  been, 
Accosted  us.     We  climbed  the  oozy  stairs 
Into  an  old  courtyard.     I  heard  on  high. 
Then,  fragments  of  most  touching  melody, 


But  looking  up  saw  not  the  singer  there. — 
Through  the  black  bars  in  the  tempestuous  air 
I  saw,  like  weeds  on  a  wTCckcd  palace  growing. 
Long  tangled  locks  flung  wildly  forth  and  flowing. 
Of  those  on  a  sudden  who  were  beguiled 
Into  strange  silence,  and  looked  forth  and  smiled, 
Hearing  sweet  sounds.     Then  I : 

"  Methinks  there  were 
A  cure  of  these  with  patience  and  kind  care, 
If  music  can  thus  move.     But  what  is  he. 
Whom  we  seek  here  1" 

"  Of  his  sad  history 
I  know  but  this,"  said  Maddalo :  «  he  came 
To  Venice  a  dejected  man,  and  fame 
Said  he  was  wealthy,  or  he  had  been  so. 
Some  thought  the  loss  of  fortune  wrought  him  wo ; 
But  he  was  ever  talking  in  such  sort 
As  you  do, — but  more  sadly  ; — he  seemed  hurt, 
Even  as  a  man  with  his.  peculiar  wrong. 
To  hear  but  of  the  oppression  of  the  strong. 
Or  those  absurd  deceits   (I  think  with  you 
In  some  respects,  you  know)  which  carry  through 
The  excellent  impostors  of  this  earth 
When  they  outface  detection.     He  had  worth, 
Poor  fellow  !  but  a  humourist  in  his  way'." — 

— "  Alas,  what  drove  him  mad  1" 

"I  cannot  say: 
A  lady  came  with  him  from  France,  and  when 
She  left  hiin  and  returned,  he  wandered  then 
About  yon  lonely  isles  of  desert  sand. 
Till  he  grew  wild.     He  had  no  cash  nor  land 
Remaining : — the  police  had  brought  him  here — • 
Some  fancy  took  him,  and  he  would  not  bear 
Removal,  so  I  fitted  up  for  him 
Those  rooms  beside  the  sea,  to  please  his  whim ; 
And   sent  him    busts,  and  books,  and    urns,    for 

flowers. 
Which  had  adorned  his  life  in  happier  hours. 
And  instruments  of  music.     You  may  guess 
A  stranger  could  do  Httle  more  or  less 
For  one  so  gentle  and  unfortunate — 
And  those  are  his  sweet  strains  which  charm  the 

weight 
From  madman's  chains,  and  make  this  hell  appear 
A  heaven  of  sacred  silence,  hushed  to  hear." 

"  Nay,  this  was  kind  of  you, — Ife  had  no  claim, 
As  the  world  says." 

"  None  but  the  very  same 
Which  I  on  all  mankind,  were  I,  as  he. 
Fallen  to  such  deep  reverse.     His  melody 
Is  interrupted  now  :  we  hear  the  din 
Of  madmen,  shriek  on  shriek,  again  begin: 
Let  us  now  visit  him  :  after  this  strain. 
He  ever  communes  with  himself  again, 
And  sees  and  hears  not  any." 

Having  said 
These  words,  we  called  the  keeper,  and  he  led 
To  an  apartment  opening  on  the  sea — 
There  the  poor  wretch  was  sitting  mournfully 
Near  a  piano,  his  pale  fingers  twined 
One  with  the  other;  and  the  ooze  and  wind 


'JULIAN    AND    MADDALO. 


249 


Rushed  through  an  open  casement,  and  did  sway 

His  hair,  and  starred  it  with  the  brackish  spray  : 

His  head  was  leaning  on  a  music  book. 

And  he  was  muttering;  and  liis  lean  limbs  shook. 

His  lips  were  pressed  against  a  folded  leaf, 

In  hue  too  beautiful  for  liealtii,  and  grief 

Smiled  in  their  motions  as  they  lay  apart, 

As  one  who  wrought  from  his  own  fervid  heart 

The  eloquence  of  passion:  soon  he  raised 

His  sad  meek  face,  and  eyes  lustrous  and  glazed. 

And  spoke, — sometimes  as  one  who  wrote,  and 

thought 
His  words  might  move  some  heart  that  heeded  not 
If  sent  to  distant  lands ; — and  then  as  one 
Reproaching  deeds  never  to  he  undone. 
With  wondering  self-compassion  ; — then  his  speech 
Was  lost  in  grief,  and  then  his  words  came  each 
Unmodulated  and  expressionless, — 
But  that  from  one  jarred  accent  you  might  guess, 
It  was  despair  made  them  so  uniform 
And  all  the  while  the  loud  and  gusty  storm 
Hissed  through  the  window,  and  we  stood  behind, 
Stealing  his  accents  from  the  envious  wind, 
Unseen.     I  yet  remember  what  he  said 
Distinctly,  such  impression  his  words  made. 

«  Month  after  month,"  he  cried, "  to  bear  this  load, 
And,  as  a  jade  urged  by  the  whip  and  goad, 
To  drag  life  on — which  like  a  heavy  chain 
Lengthens  behind  with  many  a  link  of  pain, 
And  not  to  speak  my  griet^ — O,  not  to  dare 
To  give  a  human  voice  to  my  despair ; 
But  live,  and  move,  and,  wretched  thing!  smile  on, 
As  if  I  never  went  aside  to  groan. 
And  wear  this  mask  of  falsehood  even  to  those 
Who  are  most  dear — not  for  my  own  repose. 
Alas !  no  scorn,  nor  pain,  nor  hate,  could  be  . 
So  heavy  as  that  falsehood  is  to  me — 
But  that  I  cannot  bear  more  altered  faces 
Than  needs    must   be,  more   changed   and   cold 

embraces. 
More  misery,  disappointment,  and  mistrust. 
To  own  me  for  their  father.     Would  the  dust 
Were  covered  in  upon  my  body  now ! 
That  the  life  ceased  to  toil  within  my  brow ! 
And  then  these  thoughts  would  at  the  last  be  fled : 
Let  us  not  fear  such  pain  can  vex  the  dead. 

"  What  Power  delights  to  torture  us  1    I  know 
That  to  myself  I  do  not  wholly  owe 
What  now  I  sufTcr,  though  in  part  I  may. 
Alas !  none  strewed  fresh  flowers  upon  the  way 
Where,  wandering  heedlessly,  I  met  pale  Pain, 
My  shadow,  which  will  leave  me  not  again. 
If  I  have  erred,  there  was  no  joy  in  error. 
But  pain,  and  insult,  and  unrest,  and  terror; 
I  have  not,  as  some  do,  bought  penitence 
With  pleasure,  and  a  dark  j-et  sweet  offence ; 
For  then  if  love,  and  tenderness,  and  truth. 
Had  overlived  Hope's  momentary  youth. 
My  creed  should  have  redeemed  me  from  repenting ; 
But  loathed  scorn  and  outrage  unrelenting 
Met  love  excited  by  far  other  scheming 
Until  the  end  was  gained  : — as  one  from  dreaming 
Of  sweetest  peace,  I  woke,  and  found  my  state 
Such  as  it  is — 

32 


"  0  thou,  my  spirit's  mate  ! 
Who,  for  thou  art  coinj)assionatc  and  wise, 
Wouldst  pity  me  from  thy  most  gentle  eyes 
If  this  sad  writing  thou  shouldst  ever  see ; 
My  secret  groans  nnist  be  unheard  by  thee  ; 
'Jliou  wouldst  weep  tears,  bitter  as  blood,  to  know 
Thy  lost  friend's  inconnnunicable  wo. 
Ye  few  by  whom  my  nature  has  been  weighed 
In  friendship,  let  me  not  that  name  degrade, 
By  placing  on  your  hearts  the  secret  load 
Which  crushes  mine  to  dust.     There  is  one  road 
To  peace,  and  that  is  truth,  which  follow  ye ! 
Love  sometimes  leads  astray  to  misery. 
Yet  think  not,  though  subdued  (and  I  may  well 
Say  that  I  am  subdued) — that  the  full  hell 
Within  me  would  infect  the  untainted  breast 
Of  sacred  nature  with  its  own  unrest; 
As  some  perverted  beings  think  to  find 
In  scorn  or  hate  a  medicine  for  the  mind 
Which  scorn  or  hate  hath  wounded. — O,  how  vain ! 
The  dagger  heals  not,  but  may  rend  again. 
Believe  that  I  am  ever  still  the  same 
In  creed  as  in  resolve  ;  and  what  may  tame 
My  heart,  must  leave  the  understanding  free, 
Or  all  would  sink  under  this  agony. — 
Nor  dream  that  I  will  join  the  vulgar  eye, 
Or  with  my  silence  sanction  tyranny. 
Or  seek  a  moment's  shelter  from  my  pain 
In  any  madness  which  the  world  calls  gain ; 
Ambition,  or  revenge,  or  thoughts  as  stern 
As  those  which  make  me  what  I  am,  or  turn 
To  avarice,  or  misanthropy,  or  lust : 
Heap  on  me  soon,  O  grave,  thy  welcome  dust! 
Till  then  the  dungeon  may  demand  its  prey ; 
And  Poverty  and  Shame  may  meet  and  say, 
Halting  beside  me  in  the  public  way, — ■ 
'  That  love-devoted  youth  is  ours :  let's  sit 
Beside  him :  he  may  live  some  six  months  yet' — 
Or  the  red  scaffold,  as  our  country  bends. 
May  ask  some  willing  victim ;  or  ye,  friends. 
May  fall  under  some  sorrow,  wliich  this  heart 
Or  hand  may  share,  or  vanquish,  or  avert; 
I  am  prepared,  in  truth,  with  no  proud  joy, 
To  do  or  suffer  aught,  as  when  a  boy 
I  did  devote  to  justice,  and  to  love. 
My  nature,  worthless  now. 

"  I  must  remove 
A  veil  from  my  pent  mind.     'Tis  torn  aside ! 

0  !  pallid  as  death's  dedicated  bride. 
Thou  mockery  which  art  sitting  by  my  side. 
Am  I  not  wan  like  thee  1   At  the  grave's  call 

1  haste,  invited  to  thy  wedding-ball. 

To  meet  the  ghastly  paramour,  for  whom 
Thou  hast  deserted  me, — and  made  the  tomb 
Thy  bridal  bed.     But  I  beside  thy  feet 
Will  lie,  and  watch  ye  from  my  winding-sheet 
Thus — wide  awake  though  dead — Y'etstay,  0,  stay ! 
do  not  so  soon — I  know  not  what  I  say — 
Hear  but  my  reasons — I  am  mad,  I  fear. 
My  fancy  is  o'erwrought — thou  art  not  here, 
Pale  art  thou  'tis  most  true — but  thou  art  gone — 
Thy  work  is  finished ;  I  am  left  alone. 
****** 

"  Nay  was  it  I  who  woo'd  thee  to  this  breast 
Which  like  a  serpent  thou  envenoraest 


IbO 


POEMS    WRITTEN    IN    18  18. 


As  in  repayment  of  the  warmth  it  lent  T 

Didst  thou  not  seek  me  for  thine  own  content  1 

Dili  not  thy  love  awaken  mine  1  I  thought 

That  thou  wcrt  slie  who  said  'You  kiss  me  not 

Ever;  I  fear  j-ou  do  not  love  me  now.' 

In  truth  I  loved  even  to  my  overthrow 

Her  who  would  fain  forget  these  words,  but  they 

Cling  to  her  mind,  and  cannot  pass  away. 

****** 

"  You  say  that  I  am  proud ;  that  when  I  speak, 
My  lip  is  tortured  with  the  wrongs,  which  break 
The  spirit  it  expresses. — Never  one 
Humbled  himself  before,  as  I  have  done ; 
Even  the  instinctive  worm  on  which  we  tread 
Turns,  though  it  wound  not — 'then,  with  prostrate 

head, 
Sinks  in  the  dust,  and  writhes  like  me — and  dies : 

No  : — wears  a  living  death  of  agonies ; 

As  the  slow  shadows  of  the  pointed  grass 
Mark  the  eternal  periods,  its  pangs  pass, 
Slow,  ever-moving,  making  moments  be 
As-  mine  seem, — each  aai  innnortality ; 
****** 

"  That  you  had  never  seen  me  !  never  heard 
My  voice  !  and  more  than  all  had  ne'er  endured 
The  deep  pollution  of  my  loathed  embrace ; 
That  your  eyes  ne'er  had  lied  love  in  my  face ! 
That,  Uke  some  maniac  monk,  I  had  torn  out 
The  nerves  of  manhood  by  their  bleeding  root 
With  mine  own  quivering  fingers !  so  that  ne'er 
Our  hearts  had  for  a  moment  mingled  there, 
To  disunite  in  horror !  These  were  not 
With    thee    like    some    suppressed    and    hideous 

thought. 
Which  flits  athwart  our  musings,  but  can  find 
No  rest  within  a  pure  and  gentle  mind— 
Thou  sealcdst  them  with  man)'  a  bare  broad  word. 
And  sear'dst  my  memory  o'er  them, — for  I  heard 
And  can  forget  not — they  were  ministered. 
One  after  one,  those  curses.     Mix  them  up 
Like  self-destroying  poisons  in  one  cup ; 
And  they  will  make  one  blessing,  which  thou  ne'er 
Didst  imprecate  for  on  me death ! 

"It  were 
A  cruel  punishment  for  one  most  cruel. 
If  such  can  love,  to  make  that  love  the  fuel 
Of  the  mind's  hell — hate,  scorn,  remorse,  despair : 
But  me,  whose  heart  a  stranger's  tear  might  wear 
As  water-drops  the  sandy  fountain  stone  ; 
Who  loved  and  pitied  all  things,  and  could  moan 
For  woes  which  otiiers  hear  not,  and  could  see 
The  absent  with  the  glass  of  phantasy. 
And  near  the  poor  and  trampled  sit  and  weep, 
Following  the  captive  to  his  dungeon  deep; 
Me,  who  am  as  a  nerve  o'er  which  do  creep 
The  else-unfelt  oppressions  of  tliis  earth. 
And  was  to  thee  the  flame  upon  thy  hearth, 
When  all  besi<le  was  cold : — that  thou  on  me 
Should  rain  these  p!a<Tues  of  blistering  agony^ 
Such  curses  are  from  lips  once  eloquent 
With  love's  too  partial  praise  !  IjCt  none  relent 
Who  intend  deeds  too  dreadful  for  a  name 
Henceforth,  if  an  example  for  the  same 


They  seek : — ^for  thou  on  me  lookedst  so  and  so, 
And  didst  speak  thus  and  thus.  I  live  to  show 
How  2nuch  men  bear  and  die  not. 


«  Thou  wilt  tell, 
With  the  grimace  of  hate,  how  horrible 
It  was  to  meet  my  love  when  thine  grew  less; 
Thou  wilt  admire  how  I  could  e'er  address 
Such   features  to   love's  work  ....   'Fhis  taunt, 

though  true, 
(For  indeed  Nature  nor  in  form  nor  hue 
Bestowed  on  me  her  choicest  workmanship) 
Shall  not  be  thy  defence :  for  since  thy  life 
Met  mine  first,  years  long  past, — since  thine  eye 

kindled 
With  soft  fire  under  mine, — I  have  not  dwindled, 
Nor  changed  in  mind,  or  body,  or  in  aught 
But  as  love  changes  what  it  loveUi  not 
After  long  years  and  many  trials. 

*  ***** 

"  How  vain 
Are  words ;  I  thought  never  to  speak  again, 
N^ot  even  in  secret,  not  to  my  own  heart — 
But  from  my  lips  the  uinvilling  accents  start, 
And  from  my  pen  the  words  flow  as  I  write. 
Dazzling  my  eyes  with  scalding  tears — my  sight 
Is  dim  to  see  that  charactered  in  vain. 
On  this  unfeeling  leaf,  which  burns  the  brain 
And  eats  into  it,  blotting  all  things  fair, 
And  wise  and  good,  which  time  had  written  there. 
Those  who  inflict  must  sufler,  for  they  see 
The  work  of  their  own  hearts,  and  that  must  be 
Our  chastisement  or  recompense. — O  child  ! 
I  would  that  thine  were  like  to  be  more  mild 
For  both  our  wretched  sakes, — for  thine  the  most, 
Who  feel'st  already  all  that  thou  hast  lost, 
Without  the  power  to  wish  it  thine  again. 
And,  as  slow  years  pass,  a  funereal  train, 
Each  with  the  ghost  of  some  lost  hope  or  friend 
Following  it  like  its  shadow,  wilt  thou  bend 
No  thought  on  ni}'  dead  memory  1 

•  *»»** 

"  Alas,  love  ! 
Fear  me  not :  against  thee  I'd  not  move 
A  finger  in  despite.     Do  I  not  live 
That  thou  mayst  have  less  bitter  cause  to  grieve  ? 
I  give  thee  tears  for  scorn,  and  love  for  hate ; 
And,  that  thy  lot  may  be  less  desolate 
Than  his  on  whom  thou  tramplest,  I  refrain 
From  that  sweet  sleep  which  medicines  all  pain. 
Then — when  thou  speakcst  of  me — never  say, 
'  He  could  forgive  not.' — Here  I  cast  away 
All  human  passions,  all  revenge,  all  pride ; 
I  think,  speak,  act  no  ill ;  I  do  but  hide 
Under  these  words,  like  embers,  every  spark 
Of  that  which  has  consumed  me.    Quick  and  dark 
The  grave  is  yawning: — as  its  roof  shall  cover 
My  limbs  with  dust  and  worms,  under  and  over, 
So  let  oblivion  hide  this  grief. — The  air 
Closes  upon  my  accents  as  despair 
Upon  my  heart — let  death  upon  my  care !" 

He  ceased,  and  overcome,  leant  hack  awhile ; 
Then  rising,  with  a  melancholy  smile, 


JULIAN    AND    MADDALO. 


251 


Went  to  a  sofa,  and  lay  down,  and  slept 

A  heavy  sleep,  and  in  his  dreams  he  wept, 

And  muttered  some  familiar  name,  and  wc 

Wej)t  without  shame  in  his  society. 

I  think.  I  never  was  imjjressed  so  much ! 

The  man,  who  was  not,  must  have  lacked  a  touch 

Of  human  nature. — Tiicn  we  lingered  not, 

Allhoush  our  argument  was  quite  forgot; 

But,  calling  the  attendants,  went  to  dine 

At  iMaddalo's ; — yet  neither  cheer  nor  wine 

Could  give  us  spirits,  for  we  talked  of  him. 

And  nothing  else,  till  daylight  made  stars  dim. 

And  we  agreed  it  was  some  dreadful  ill 

Wrought  on  him  boldly,  yet  unspeakable, 

By  a  dear  friend ;  some  deadly  change  in  love 

Of  one  vowed  deeply  which  he  dreamed  not  of; 

For  whose  sake  he,  it  seemed,  had  fixed  a  blot. 

Of  falsehood  in  his  mind,  which  flourished  not 

But  in  the  light  of  all-beholding  truth  ; 

And  having  stamped  this  canker  on  his  youth. 

She  had  abandoned  him : — and  how  much  more 

Might  be  his  wo,  we  guessed  not ; — he  had  store 

Of  friends  and  fortune  once,  as  we  could  guess 

From  his  nice  habits  and  his  gentleness : 

These  now  were  lost — it  were  a  grief  indeed 

If  he  had  changed  one  unsustaining  reed 

For  all  that  such  a  man  might  else  adorn. 

The  colours  of  his  mind  seemed  yet  luiwom  ; 

For  the  wild  language  of  his  grief  was  liigh — 

Such  as  in  measure  were  called  poetry. 

And  I  remember  one  remark,  which  then 

Maddalo  made  :  he  said — "  Most  wretched  men 

Are  cradled  into  poetry  by  wrong : 

They  learn  in  suffering  what  they  teach  in  song." 

If  I  had  been  an  unconnected  man, 

I,  fi'om  the  moment,  should  have  formed  some  plan 

Never  to  leave  sweet  Venice  :  for  to  me 

It  was  delight  to  ride  by  the  lone  sea : 

And  then  the  town  is  silent — one  may  write 

Or  read  in  gondolas,  by  day  or  night, 

Having  the  little  brazen  lamp  alight. 

Unseen,  uninterrupted : — books  are  there. 

Pictures,  and  casts  from  all  those  statues  fair 

Which  were  twin-born  with  poetry  ! — and  all 

We  seek  in  towns,  with  little  to  recall 

Regret  for  the  green  country  : — I  might  sit 

In  Maddalo's  great  palace,  and  his  wit 

And  subtle  talk  would  cheer  the  whiter  night. 

And  make  me  know  myself: — and  the  fire  light 

Would  flash  upon  our  faces,  till  the  day 

Might  dawn,  and  make  me  wonder  at  my  stay. 

But  I  had  friends  in  London  too.     The  chief 

Attraction  here  was  that  I  sought  relief 

From  the  deep  tenderness  that  maniac  wrought 

Within  me — 'twas  perhaps  an  idle  thought, 

But  I  imagined  that  if  day  by  day, 

I  watched  him,  and  seldom  went  away, 


And  studied  all  the  beatings  of  his  heart 

With  zeal,  as  men  study  some  stubborn  art 

For  their  own  good,  and  could  by  patience  find 

An  entrance  to  the  caverns  of  his  mind, 

I  might  reclaim  him  from  his  dark  estate. 

In  friindships  I  had  been  most  fortunate, 

Yet  never  saw  I  one  whom  I  would  call 

More  willingly  my  friend  : — and  this  was  all 

Accomplished  not; — -such  dreams  of  baseless  good 

Olt  come  and  go,  in  crowds  or  solitude. 

And  leave  no  trace  ! — but  what  I  now  designed 

Made,  for  long  years,  impression  on  my  mind. 

'i'be  following  morning  urged  by  my  allltirs, 

I  left  bright  Venice. 

After  many  years, 
And  many  changes,  I  returned  :  the  name 
Of  Venice  and  its  aspect  was  the  same ; 
But  ]\Taddalo  was  travelling,  far  away, 
Among  the  mountains  of  Armenia. 
His  dog  was  dead :  his  child  had  now  become 
A  woman,  such  as  it  has  been  my  doom 
To  meet  with  few ;  a  wonder  of  this  earth. 
Where  there  is  little  of  transcendent  worth, — ■ 
Like  one  of  Shakspeare's  women.     Kindly  she, 
And  with  a  manner  beyond  courtesy, 
Received  her  father's  friend ;  and,  when  I  asked, 
Of  the  lorn  maniac,  she  her  memory  tasked. 
And  told,  as  she  had  heard,  the  mournful  tale : 
"  That  the  poor  suilcrer's  health  began  to  fail 
Two  years  from  my  departure :  but  that  then 
The  lad}^  who  had  left  him,  came  again. 
Her  mien  had  been  imperious,  but  she  now 
Looked  meek ;  perhaps  remorse  had  brought  her 

low. 
Her  coming  made  him  better ;  and  they  stayed 
Together  at  my  father's, — for  I  played. 
As  I  remember,  with  the  lady's  shawl ; 
I  might  be  six  years  old : — But,  after  all, 
She  left  him." 

"  Why,  her  heart  must  have  been  tough ; 
How  did  it  cndl" 

"  And  was  not  this  enough  T 
They  met,  they  parted." 

"  Child,  is  there  no  more  1 

«  Something  within  that  interval  which  hore 
The  stamp  of  why  they  parted,  how  they  met ; — 
Yet,  if  thine  aged  eyes  disdain  to  wet 
Those  wTinkled  cheeks  with  youth's  remembered 

tears. 
Ask  me  no  more ;  but  let  the  silent  years 
Be  closed  and  cered  over  their  memory. 
As  yon  mute  marble  where  their  corpses  lie." 
I  urged  and  questioned  still :  she  told  me  how 
All  Happened — but  the  cold  world  shall  not  know. 


252 


POEMS    WRITTEN    IN    18  18. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


PASSAGE  OF  THE  APENNINES. 


Ltstf.jt,  listen,  Mary  mine, 
To  the  whisper  of  the  Apennine, 
It  bursts  on  the  roof  like  the  thunder's  roar, 
Or  Uke  the  sea  on  a  northern  fhore. 
Heard  in  its  raging  ebb  and  flow 
By  the  captives  pent  in  tlic  cave  below. 
The  Apennine  in  the  light  of  day 
Is  a  mighty  mountain  dim  and  gray, 
Which  between  the  earth  and  sky  doth  lay ; 
But  when  night  comes,  a  chaos  dread 
On  the  dim  starlight  then  is  spread, 
And  the  Apennine  walks  abroad  with  the  storm. 
May  iUi,  1818. 


THE  PAST. 


WrLT  thou  forget  the  happy  hours 
Which  we  buried  in  Love's  sweet  bowers, 
Heaping  over  their  corpses  cold 
Blossoms  and  leaves  instead  of  mould  1 
Blossoms  w'hich  were  the  joys  that  fell. 
And  leaves,  the  hopes  that  yet  remain. 

Forget  the  dead,  the  past !     O  yet 

There  are  ghosts  that  may  take  revenge  for  it ; 

Memories  that  make  the  heart  a  tomb, 

Regrets  which  glide  through  the  spitit's  gloom, 

And  with  ghastly  whispers  tell 

That  joy,  once  lost,  is  pain. 


THE  WOODMAN  AND  THE  NIGHT- 
INGALE. 


A  wooBM^AjT,  whose  rough  heart  was  out  of  tune 
(I  think  such  hearts  yet  never  came  to  good,) 
Hated  to  hear,  under  the  stars  or  moon, 

One  nightingale  in  an  int^rfluous  wood 
Satiate  the  hungry  dark  with  melody  ; — 
And,  as  a  vale  is  watered  by  a  flood, 

Or  as  the  moonlight  fills  the  open  sky 
Struggling  with  darkness — as  a  tuberose 
Peoples  some  Indian  dell  with  scents  which  lie 

Like  clouds  above  the  flower  from  which  they  rose. 
The  singing  of  that  happy  nightingale 
In  this  sweet  forest,  from  the  golden  close 


Of  evening  till  the  star  of  dawn  may  fail, 
Was  interfused  upon  the  silentness ; 
The  folded  roses  and  the  violets  pale 

Heard  her  within  their  slumbers,  the  abyss 
Of  heaven  with  all  its  planets ;  the  dull  ear 
Of  the  night-cradled  earth;  the  loneliness 

Of  the  circumfluous  watery, — every  sphere 
And  every  flower  and  beam  and  cloud  and  wave, 
And  every  wind  of  the  mute  atmosphere. 

And  every  beast  stretched  in  its  rugged  cave, 
And  every  bird  lulled  on  its  mossy  bough. 
And  every  silver  moth,  fresh  from  the  grave, 

Which  is  its  cradle — ever  from  below 
Aspiring  like  one  who  loves  too  fair,  too  far, 
To  be  consumed  within  the  purest  glow 

Of  one  serene  and  unapproached  star, 
As  if  it  were  a  lamp  of  earthly  light. 
Unconscious  as  some  human  lovers  are, 

Itself  how  low.  how  high,  beyond  all  height 

The  heaven  where  it  would  perish  ! — and  every  form 

That  worshipped  in  the  temple  of  the  night 

Was  awed  into  delight,  and  by  the  charm 

Girt  as  with  an  interminable  zone. 

Whilst  that  sweet  bird,  whose  music  was  a  storm 

Of  sound,  shook  forth  the  dull  oblivion 
Out  of  their  dreams ;  harmony  became  love 
In  every  soul  but  one.  .  .  . 


And  so  this  man  returned  with  axe  and  saw 
At  evening  close  from  killing  the  tall  treen. 
The  soul  of  whom  by  nature's  gentle  law 

Was  each  a  wood-nymph,  and  kept  ever  green 
The  pavement  and  the  roof  of  the  wild  copse, 
Chequering  the  sunlight  of  the  blue  serene 

With  jagged  leaves, — and  from  the  forest  tops 
Singing  the  winds  to  sleep — or  weeping  oft 
Fast  showers  of  aiirial  water-drops. 

Into  their  mother's  bosom,  sweet  and  soft, 
Nature's  pure  tears  which  have  no  bitterness ; — 
Around  the  cradles  of  the  birds  aloft 

They  spread  themselves  into  the  loveliness 

Of  fanlikc  leaves,  and  over  pallid  flowers 

Hang  like  moist  clouds:  or  where  liigh  branches  kiss, 

Make  a  green  space  among  the  silent  bowers, 
Like  a  vast  fane  in  a  metropolis. 
Surrounded  by  the  columns  and  the  towers 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


253 


All  ovrnvrought  with  branclilikc  traceries 
In  which  there  is  religion — and  the  mute 
Persuasion  of  unkiiidU'il  melodies, 

Odours  and  n;lcams  and  murmurs,  which  the  lute 
Of  the  blind  pilot-spirit  of  the  blast 
Stirs  as  it  sails,  now  grave  and  now  acute, 

Wakening  the  leaves  and  waves  ere  it  has  past 
To  such  brief  unison  as  on  the  brain 
One  tone,  which  never  can  recur,  has  cast, 

One  accent  never  to  return  again. 


TO  MARY 


0  Mart  dear,  that  you  were  here 
With  your  brown  eyes  bright  and  clear, 
And  your  sweet  voice,  like  a  bird 
Singing  love  to  its  lone  mate 

In  the  ivy  bower  disconsolate ; 
Voice  the  sweetest  ever  heard  ! 
And  your  brow  more     *      *      * 
Than  the     *      *      *     sky 
Of  this  azure  Italy. 
Mary  dear,  come  to  me  soon, 

1  am  not  well  whilst  thou  art  far  ; 
As  sunset  to  the  sphered  moon, 
As  twilight  to  the  western  star, 
Thou,  beloved,  art  to  me. 

O  Mary  dear,  that  you  were  here  ! 
The  Castle  echo  whispers  "  Here  !" 
EsTE,  September,  1818. 


.     ON  A  FADED  VIOLET. 

TuE  colour  from  the  flower  is  gone. 

Which  like  thy  sweet  eyes  smiled  on  me  ; 

The  odour  from  the  flower  is  flown. 

Which  breathed  of  thee  and  only  thee ! 

A  withered,  lifeless,  vacant  form. 
It  lies  on  my  abandoned  breast. 

And  mocks  the  heart  which  yet  is  warm 
With  cold  and  silent  rest. 

I  weep — my  tears  revive  it  not. 

I  sigh — it  breathes  no  more  on  me ; 
Its  mute  and  uncomplaining  lot 

Is  such  as  mine  should  be. 


MISERY A  FRAGMENT. 


Come,  be  happy  ! — sit  near  me, 
Shadow-v&sted  Misery  : 
Coy,  unwilling,  silent  bride, 
Mourning  in  thy  robe  of  pride. 
Desolation — deified ! 


Come,  be  happy  ! — sit  near  me  : 
Sad  as  I  may  seem  to  thee, 
I  am  happier  far  than  thou. 
Lady,  whose  imi)erial  brow 
Is  endiademed  with  wo. 

Misery  !  we  have  known  each  other, 
Like  a  sister  and  a  brother 
Living  in  the  same  lone  home. 
Many  years — we  must  live  some 
Hours  or  ages  yet  to  come. 

'Tis  an  evil  lotj  and  yet 

Let  us  make  the  best  of  it ; 

If  love  can  live  when  pleasure  dies, 

We  two  will  love,  till  in  our  eyes 

This  heart's  Hell  seem  Paradise. 

Come,  be  happy  ! — lie  thee  down 
On  the  fresh  grass  newly  mown. 
Where  the  grasshopper  doth  sing 
Merrily — one  joyous  thing 
In  a  world  of  sorrovving  ! 

There  our  tent  shall  be  the  willow. 
And  mine  arm  shall  be  thy  pillow; 
Sounds  and  odours,  sorrowful 
Because  they  once  were  sweet,  shall  lull 
Us  to  slumber  deep  and  dull. 

Ha  !  thy  frozen  pulses  flutter 
M'ith  a  love  thou  dar'st  not  utter. 
Thou  art  murmuring — thou  art  weeping- 
Is  thine  icy  bosom  leaping 
While  my  burning  heart  lies  sleeping  ? 

Kiss  me  ; — oh  !  thy  lips  are  cold ; 
Round  my  neck  thine  arms  enfold — i 
They  are  soft,  but  chill  and  dead ; 
And  thy  tears  upon  my  head 
Burn  like  points  of  frozen  lead. 

Hasten  to  the  bridal  bed — 
Undenieath  the  grave  'tis  spread 
In  darkness  may  our  love  be  hid. 
Oblivion  be  our  coverlid — 
We  may  rest,  and  none  forbid. 

Clasp  me,  till  our  hearts  be  grown 
Like  two  shadows  into  one ; 
Till  this  dreadful  transport  may 
Like  a  vapour  fade  away 
In  the  sleep  that  lasts  alway. 

We  may  dream  in  that  long  sleep, 
That  we  are  not  those  who  weep ; 
Even  as  Pleasure  dreams  of  thee, 
Life-deserting  misery, 
Thou  maycst  dream  of  her  with  me. 

Let  us  laugh,  and  make  our  mirth, 
At  the  shadows  of  the  earth. 
As  dogs  bay  the  moonlight  clouds, 
Which,  like  spectres  wrapt  in  shrouds. 
Pass  o'er  night  in  multitudes. 

All  the  wide  world,  beside  us 
Show  like  multitudinous 
Puppets  passing  from  a  scene  ; 
What  but  mockery  can  they  mean. 
Where  I  am — ^where  thou  hast  been  T 
Y 


254 


POEMS    WRITTEN    IN    18  18. 


STANZAS, 

WniTTEX    IN    DEJECTIO.V,    JfEATl    NAPLES. 

The  sun  is  warm,  the  sky  is  clear. 

The  waves  are  ilanciiig  fast  and  bright, 
Blue  isles  and  snowy  mountains  wear 

The  purple  noon's  transparent  light. 
The  breath  of  the  moist  air  is  light. 

Around  its  unexpandcd  buds; 
Like  many  a  voice  of  one  delight, 

The  winds,  the  birds,  the  ocean  floods. 
The  City's  voice  itself  is  soft  like  Solitude's. 

I  see  the  Deep's  untramplcd  floor 

With  green  and  purple  sea-weeds  strown ; 
I  sen  the  waves  upon  the  shore, 

Like  lighfr  dissolved  in  star-showers,  thrown  : 
I  sit  upon  the  sands  alone, 

The  lightning  of  the  noontide  ocean 
Is  flashing  round  me,  and  a  tone 

Arises  from  its  measured  motion, 
How  sweet !  did  any  heart  now  share  in  my  emotion. 

Alas !  I  have  nor  hope  nor  health. 

Nor  peace  within  nor  calm  around, 
Nor  that  content  surpassing  wealth 

The  sage  in  meditation  found. 
And  walked  with  inward  glory  crowned — 

Nor  fame,  nor  power,  nor  love,  nor  leisure. 
Others  I  see  whom  these  surround — 

Sn^ling  they  live,  and  call  life  pleasure ; 
To  me  that  cup  has  been  dealt  in  another  measure. 

Yet  now  despair  itself  is  mild. 

Even  as  the  winds  and  waters  are  ; 
I  could  lie  down  like  a  tired  child. 

And  weep  away  the  life  of  care 
Which  I  have  borne,  and  yet  must  bear. 

Till  death  like  sleep  might  steal  on  me. 
And  I  might  feel  in  the  warm  air 

My  check  grow  cold,  and  hear  the  sea 
Breathe  o'er  my  dying  brain  its  last  monotony. 

Some  might  lament  that  I  were  cold. 

As  I  when  this  sweet  day  is  gone. 
Which  my  lost  heart,  too  soon  grown  old, 

Insults  with  this  untimely  moan ; 
They  might  lament — for  I  am  one 

Whom  men  love  not, — and  yet  regret. 
Unlike  this  day,  which,  when  the  sun 

Shall  on  its  stainless  glory  set. 
Will  linger,  though  enjoyed,  like  joy  in  mcmor}'  yet. 
December,  1618. 


MAZENGHL* 

O  !  TosTEn-NTJnsr.  of  man's  abandoned  glory 
Since  Athens,  its  great  mother,  sunk  in  splendour, 
Thou  shadowcst  forth  that  mighty  shape  in  story. 
As  Ocean  its  wrecked  fanes,  severe  yet  tender : — 

*  This  fragment  refers  to  an  event,  told  in  Sismondi's 
JJifloire  lies  Republiques  Itnlienves,  which  occurred 
durinK  the  war  when  Florence  finally  siilidued  I'isa, 
and  redticed  it  to  a  province.  The  opening  stanzas  are 
addressed  to  the  conquering  city. — M.  S. 


The  light-invested  angel  Poesy 

Was  drawn  from  the  dim  world  to  welcome  thee. 

And  thou  in  painting  didst  transcribe  all  taught 

By  loftiest  meditations ;  marble  knew 

The  sculptor's  fearless  soul — and,  as  he  wrought. 

The  grace  of  his  own  power  and  freedom  grew. 

And  more  than  all,  heroic,  just,  sublime. 

Thou  wert  among  the  false — was  this  thy  crime  1 

Yes ;  and  on  Pisa's  marble  walls  the  twine 
Of  direst  weeds  hangs  garlanded — the  snake 
Inhabits  its  wrecked  palaces ; — in  thine 
A  beast  of  subtler  venom  now  doth  make 
Its  lair,  and  sits  amid  their  glories  overthrown, 
And  thus  thy  victim's  fate  is  as  thine  own. 

The  sweetest  flowers  are  ever  frail  and  rare. 
And  love  and  freedom  blossom  but  to  wither ; 
And  good  and  ill  like  \anes  entangled  are. 
So  that  their  grapes  may  oft  be  plucked  together ; — 
Divide  the  vintage  ere  thou  drink,  then  make 
Thy  heart  rejoice  for  dead  Mazenghi's  sake. 

No  record  of  his  crime  remains  in  story. 
But  if  the  morning  bright  as  evening  shone, 
It  was  some  high  and  holy  deed,  by  glory 
Pursued  into  forgetfulness,  which  won 
From  the  blind  crowd  he  made  secure  and  free 
The  patriot's  meed,  toil,  death,  and  infamy. 

For  when  by  sound  of  trumpet  was  declared 
A  price  upon  his  life,  and  there  was  set 
A  penalty  of  blood  on  all  who  shared 
So  much  of  water  with  him  as  might  wet 
His  lips,  which  speech  divided  not — he  went 
Alone,  as  you  may  guess,  to  banishment. 

Amid  the  mountains,  like  a  hunted  beast. 
He  hid  himself,  and  hunger,  cold,  and  toil. 
Month  after  month  endured ;  it  was  a  feast 
Whene'er  he  found  those  globes  of  deep  red  gold 
Which  in  the  woods  the  strawberr\--tree  doth  bear. 
Suspended  in  their  emerald  atmosphere. 

And  in  the  roofless  huts  of  vast  morasses. 
Deserted  by  the  fever-stricken  serf. 
All  overgrown  with  reeds  and  long  rank  grasses, 
And  hillocks  heaped  of  moss-inwoven  turf. 
And  where  the  huge  and  speckled  aloe  made, 
Rooted  in  stones,  a  broad  and  pointed  shade, 

He  housed  himself.  There  is  a  point  of  strand 
Near  Vada's  tower  and  town;  and  on  one  side 
The  treacherous  marsh  divides  it  from  the  landj 
Shadowed  by  pine  and  ilex  forests  wide ; 
And  on  the  other  creeps  eternally, 
Through  muddy  weeds,  the  shallow  sullen  sea. 
Naples,  1818. 


SONG  FOR  TASSO. 

I  LOTEn — alas!  our  life  is  love; 

But  when  we  cease  to  breathe  and  move, 

I  do  supjiose  love  ceases  too. 

I  thought,  but  not  as  now  I  do, 

Keen  thoughts  and  bright  of  linked  lore. 


EDITOR'S    NOTE    ON    POEMS    OF    1818. 


255 


Of  all  that  men  had  thought  before, 
And  all  that  Nature  shows,  and  more. 

And  still  I  love,  and  still  I  think, 
But  strangely,  for  my  heart  can  drink 
The  dregs  of  such  desj)air,  and  live, 
And  love ; 

And  if  I  think,  my  thoughts  come  fast; 
I  mix  the  present' with  the  past. 
And  each  seems  uglier  than  the  last. 

Sometimes  I  see  before  me  flee 

A  silver  spirit's  form,  like  thee, 

O  Leonora,  and  I  sit 

[  ]  still  watching  it. 

Till  by  the  grated  casement's  ledge 

It  fades,  with  such  a  sigh,  as  sedge 

Breathes  o'er  the  breczv  streamlet's  edge. 


SONNET. 

JiiFT  not  the  painted  veil  which  those  wlio  live 
Call  Life;  though  uiu'eal  shapes  be  pictured  there, 
And  it  but  mimic  all  we  would  believe 
With  colom-s  idly  spread, — behind,  lurk  Fear 
And  Hope,  twin  Destinies;  who  ever  weave 
Their  shadows,  o'er  the  chasm,  sightless  and  drear. 

I  knew  one  who  had  lifted  it — he  sought. 
For  his  lost  heart  was  tender,  things  to  love. 
But  found  them  not,  alas !  nor  was  there  anght 
The  world  contains,  tlie  which  he  could  approve. 
Through  the  unheeding  many  he  did  move, 
A  splendour  among  shadows,  a  bright  blot 
Upon  this  gloomy  scene,  a  Spirit  that  strove 
For  truth,  and,  lilce  the  Preacher,  found  it  not. 


NOTE  ON  THE  POEMS  OF  1818. 

BY  THE  EDITOR. 


RosALTND  AND  Hklejt  was  begun  at  Marlow, 
and  thrown  aside — till  I  found  it;  and,  at  my  re- 
quest, it  was  completed.  Shelley  had  no  care  for 
any  of  his  poems  that  did  not  emanate  from  the 
depths  of  his  mind,  and  develope  some  high  or  ab- 
struse truth.  When  he  does  touch  on  human  life 
and  the  human  heart,  no  pictures  can  be  more 
faithful,  more  delicate,  more  subtle,  or  more  pa- 
thetic. He  never  mentioned  Love,  but  he  shed  a 
grace,  borrowed  from  his  own  nature,  that  scarcely 
any  other  poet  has  bestowed,  on  that  passion. 
When  he  spoke  of  it  as  the  law  of  life,  which  in- 
asmuch as  we  rebel  against,  we  errand  injure  our- 
selves and  others,  he  promulgated  that  which  he 
considered  an  irrefragable  truth.  In  his  eyes  it 
was  the  essence  of  our  being,  and  all  wo  and 
pain  arose  from  the  war  made  against  it  by  selfish- 
ness, or  insensibility,  or  mistake.  By  reverting  in 
his  mind  to  this  first  principle,  he  discovered  the 
source  of  many  emotions,  and  could  disclose  the 
secret  of  all  hearts,  and  his  delineations  of  passion 
and  emotion  touch  the  finest  chords  of  our  nature. 

Rosalind  and  Helen  was  finished  during  the 
summer  of  1818,  while  we  were  at  the  Baths  of 
Lucca.  ■  Thence  Shelley  visited  Venice,  and  cir- 
cumstances rendering  it  eligible  that  we  should 
remain  a  few  weeks  in  the  neighbourhood  of  that 
city,  he  accepted  the  offer  of  Lord  Byron,  who  lent 
him  the  use  of  a  villa  he  rented  near  Este ;  and 
he  sent  for  his  family  from  Lucca  to  join  him. 

I  Capuccini  was  a  villa  built  on  the  site  of  a 


Capuchin  convent,  demolished  when  the  French 
suppressed  religious  houses  ;^t  was  situated  on  the 
very  over-hanging  brow  of  a  low  hill  at  the  foot 
of  a  range  of  higher  ones.  The  house  was  cheer- 
ful and  pleasant ;  a  vine-trellised  walk,  a  Pergola, 
as  it  is  called  in  Italian,  led  from  the  hall-door  to 
a  summer-house  at  the  end  of  the  garden,  which 
Shelley  made  his  study,  and  in  which  he  began 
the  Prometheus  ;  and  here  also,  as  he  mentions  in 
a  letter,  he  wrote  Julian  and  Maddalo ;  a  slight 
ravine,  with  a  road  in  its  depth,  divided  the  garden 
from  the  hill,  on  which  stood  the  ruins  of  the 
ancient  castle  of  Este,  whose  dark  massive  wall 
gave  forth  an  echo,  and  from  whose  ruined  cre- 
vices, owls  and  bats  flitted  forth  at  night,  as  the 
crescent  moon  sunk  behind  the  black  and  heavy 
battlements.  We  looked  from  the  garden  over  the 
wide  plain  of  Lombardy,  bounded  to  the  west  by 
the  far  Apennines,  while  to  the  east,  the  horizon 
was  lost  in  misty  distance.  After  the  picturesque 
but  limited  view  of  mountain,  ravine,  and  chestnut 
wood  at  the  Baths  of  Lucca,  there  was  something 
infinitely  gratifying  to  the  eye  in  the  wide  range 
of  prospect  commanded  by  our  new  abode. 

Our  first  misfortune,  of  the  kind  fi-om  which  we 
soon  suffered  even  more  severely,  happened  here. 
Our  little  girl,  an  infant  in  whose  small  features  I 
fancied  that  I  traced  great  resemblance  to  her  father, 
showed  symptoms  of  suffering  from  the  heat  of  the 
climate.  Teething  increased  her  illness  and  danger. 
We  were  at  Este,  and  when  we  became  alarmed, 
hastened  to  Venice  for  the  best  advice.     When  we 


256 


EDITOR'S    NOTE    ON    POEMS    OF    18  18. 


arrived  at  Fusina,  we  found  that  we  had  forgotten 
our  passport,  and  the  soldiers  on  duty  attempted  to 
prevent  our  crossing  the  liaguna ;  but  they  could 
not  resist  Shelley's  impetuosity  at  such  .a  moment. 
We  had  scarcely  arrived  at  Venice,  before  life  fled 
from  the  little  suflerer,  and  we  returned  to  Este  to 
weep  her  loss. 

After  a  few  weeks  spent  in  this  retreat,  which 
were  interspersed  by  visits  to  Venice,  we  proceeded 
southward.  We  often  hear  of  persons  disappointed 
by  a  first  visit  to  Italy.  This  was  not  Shelley's 
case — the  aspect  of  its  nature,  its  sunny  sky,  its 
majestic  storms ;  of  the  luxuriant  vegetation  of  the 
country,  and  the  noble  marble-built  cities,  en- 
chanted him.  The  sight  of  the  works  of  art  were 
full  of  enjoyment  and  wonder ;  he  had  not  studied 
pictures  nor  statues  before,  he  now  did  so  with  the 
eye  of  taste,  that  referred  not  to  the  rules  of 
schools,  but  to  those  of  nature  and  truth.  The 
first  entrance  to  Rome  opened  to  him  a  scene  of 
remains  of  antique  grandeur  that  far  surpassed  his 
expectations ;  and  the  unspeakable  beauty  of  Naples 
and  its  environs  added  to  the  impression  he  re- 
ceived of  the  transcendant  and  glorious  beauty 
of  Italy.  As  I  have  said,  he  wrote  long  letters 
during  the  first  year  of  our  residence  in  this  coun- 
try, and  these,  when  published,  will  be  the  best 
testimonials  of  his  appreciation  of  the  harmonious 
and  beautiful  in  art  and  nature,  and  his  delicate 
taste  in  discerning  and  describing  them.* 

Our  winter  was  spent  at  Naples.  Here  he  wrote 
the  fragments  of  Mazenghi  and  the  Woodman  and 
the  Nightingale,  which  he  afterwards  threw  aside. 
At  this  time  Shelley  suflcred  greatly  in  health. 
He  put  himself  under  the  care  of  a  medical  man, 
who  promised  great  things,  and  made  him  endure 
severe  bodily  pain,  without  any  good  results. 
Constant  and  poignant  physical  sulTering  exhausted 
him ;  and  though  he  preserved  the  appearance  of 
cheerfulness,  and  often  greatly  enjoyed  our  wan- 
derings in  the  environs  of  Naples,  and  our  excur- 
sions on  the  sunny  sea,  yet  many  hours  were 
passed  when  his  thoughts,  shadowed  by  illness,  be- 
came gloomy,  and  then  he  escaped  to  solitude,  and 
in  verses,  which  he  hid  from  fear  of  wounding  me, 
poured  forth  morbid  but  too  natural  bursts  of  dis- 
content and  sadnessi  One  looks  back  with  un- 
speakable regret  and  gnawing  remorse  to  such 
periods ;  fancying  that  had  one  been  more  alive  to 

*  These  letters,  touether  with  various  essnys,  trnus- 
lations,  and  frasments,  beinu'  the  ^'realer  portion  of  the 
prose  writings  left  by  Shelley,  are  now  in  the  press.— 
M.S. 


the  nature  of  his  feelings,  and  more  attentive  to 
soothe  them,  such  would  not  have  existed — and 
yet  enjoying,  as  he  appeared  to  do,  every  sight  or 
influence  of  earth  or  sky,  it  was  difficult  to  imagine 
that  any  melancholy  he  showed  was  aught  but  the 
eflTect  of  the  constant  pain  to  which  he  was  a 
martyr. 

We  lived  in  utter  solitude — and  such  is  often 
not  the  nurse  of  cheerfulness  ;  for  then,  at  least 
with  those  who  have  been  exposed  to  adversity, 
the  mind  broods  over  its  sorrows  too  intently  ;  while 
the  society  of  the  enlightened,  the  witty,  and  the 
wise,  enables  us  to  forget  ourselves  by  making  us 
the  sharers  of  the  thoughts  of  others,  which  is  a 
portion  of  the  philosophy  of  happiness.  Shelley 
never  liked  society  in  numbers,  it  harassed  and 
wearied  him;  but  neither  did  he  like  J/^neliness, 
and  usually  when  alone  sheltered  himself  against 
memory  and  reflection,  in  a  book.  But  with  one 
or  two  whom  he  loved,  he  gave  way  to  wild  and 
joyous  spirits,  or  in  more  serious  conversation  ex- 
pounded his  opinions  with  vivacity  and  eloquence. 
If  an  argument  arose,  no  man  ever  argued  better^ 
he  was  clear,  logical,  and  earnest,  in  supporting 
his  own  views ;  attentive,  patient,  and  impartial, 
while  listening  to  those  on  the  adverse  side.  Had 
not  a  wall  of  prejudice  been  raised  at  tliis  time 
between  him  and  his  countrymen,  how  many 
would  have  sought  the  acquaintance  of  one,  whom 
to  know  was  to  love  and  to  revere !  how  many  of 
the  more  enlightened  of  his  contemporaries  have 
since  regretted  that  they  did  not  seek  him  !  how 
very  few  knew  his  worth  while  he  lived,  and  of 
those  few,  several  were  withheld  by  timidity  or 
envy  firom  declaring  their  sense  of  it.  But  no  man 
was  ever  more  enthusiastically  loved — more  looked 
up  to  as  one  superior  to  his  fellows  in  intellectual 
endowments  and  moral  worth,  by  the  few  who  knew 
him  well,  and  had  sufficient  nobleness  of  soul  to 
appreciate  his  superiority.  His  excellence  is  now 
acknowledged ;  but  even  while  admitted,  not  duly 
appreciated.  For  who,  except  those  who  were 
acquainted  with  hiiri,  can  imagine  his  unwearied 
benevolence,  his  generosity,  his  sj'stematic  forbear- 
ance ?  And  still  less  is  his  vast  superiority  in  in- 
tellectual attainments  sufficiently  understood — his 
sagacity,  his  clear  understanding,  his  learning,  his 
prodigious  memory ;  all  these,  as  displayed  in  con- 
versation, were  known  to  few  while  he  lived,  and 
are  now  silent  in  the  tomb : 

Ahi  orbo  mondo  incrato, 

Gran  casion  hai  di  dever  piansrer  mnfo. 

Che  quel  ben  ch'  era  in  te,  perdiit'  hai  seco. 


POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  MDCCCXIX. 


THE  MASQUE  OF  ANARCHY. 


As  I  lay  asleep  in  Italy, 
There  came  a  voice  from  over  the  sea,  t  / 
And  with  great  power  it  forth  led  me     ^    ' 
To  walk  in  the  visions  of  Poesy. 


I  met  Murder  on  the  way — 
He  had  a  mask  like  Castlereagh — 
Very  smoothe  he  looked,  yet  grim  ; 
Seven  bloodhounds  followed  him : 


All  were  fat ;  and  well  they  might 

Be  in  admirable  plight. 

For  one  by  one,  and  two  by  two, 

He  tossed  them  human  hearts  to  chew. 

Which  from  his  wide  cloak  he  drew. 

IV. 

Next  came  Fraud,  and  he  had  on. 

Like  Lord  E ,  an  ermine  gown ; 

His  big  tears,  for  he  wept  well. 
Turned  to  millstones  as  they  fell ; 


And  the  little  cmldreri',  who 

Round  his  feet  pbf  ed  to  and  fro, 

Thinking  evejry  tiar  a  gem, 

Had  their  brains  laiocked  out  by  them. 


u 


Clothed  wit\th 
And  the  sha 
Like  S  *  * 
On  a  crocodil 


TI. 

bible  as  with  Ught, 
of  the  night, 
Hypocrisy, 
by. 


And  many  more  Destructions  played 
In  this  ghastly  masquerade. 
All  disguised,  even  to  the  eyes. 
Like  bishops,  lawyers,  peers,  or  spies. 

viir. 
Last  came  Anarchy ;  he  rode 
On  a  white  horse  splashed  with  blood ; 
He  was  pale  even  to  the  lips. 
Like  Death  in  the  Apocalypse. 

IX. 

And  he  wore  a  kingly  crown ; 
In  his  hand  a  sceptre  shone  ; 
On  his  brow  this  mark  I  saw — 
1 1  am  God,  and  King,  and  Law  !" 
33 


With  a  pace  stately  and  fast, 
Over  English  land  he  past. 
Trampling  to  a  mire  of  blood 
The  adoring  multitude. 


And  a  mighty  troorp  around. 

With  their  trampling  shook  the  ground. 

Weaving  each  a  bloody  sword. 

For  the  service  of  their  Lord. 


4- 


And,  with  glorious  triumph,  they 
Rode  through  England,  proud  and  gay, 
Drunk  as  with  intoxication 
Of  the  wine  of  desolation. 

xiir.'. 
O'er  fields  and  towns,  jfrom  sea  to  sea, 
Passed  the  pageant  s\vift  and  free, 
Tearing  up  and  trampling  down, 
Till  they  came  to  LoiAlon  town. 

XIV. 

And  each  dweller,  panic-stricken. 
Felt  his  heart  with  terror  sicken, 
Hearing  the  tremendous  cry 
Of  the  triumph  of  Anarchy. 

XV. 

For  %vith  pomp  to  meet  him  came,  t    ^^' 

Clothed  in  arms  like  blood  and  flame,    ^"""^ 
The  hired  murderers  who  did  sing, 
""-♦^hou  ail)  Gud,  and  Law^'ond  Kingi — ■ 

XVI. 

«  We  have  waited,  weak  and  lone, 
For  thy  coming.  Mighty  One ! 
Our  purses  are  empty,  our  swords  are  cold, 
Give  us  glory,  and  blood,  and  gold." 

XVII^ 

Lawyers  and  priestsA  motley  crowd, 
To  the  earth  their  pae  brows  bowed. 
Like  a  bad  prayer  naj  over  loud, 
Wliispering, — "  Thol  art  Law  and  God !" 

xviii 

Then  all  cried  with  one  accord, 
''Thou  art  King,  and  Law,  and  Lord ; 
Anarchy,  to  thee  we  bow. 
Be  thy  name  made  holy  now !" 

Y  2  257 


258 


POEMS    WRITTEN    IN    1819. 


XIX. 

And  Anarchy,  the  skolcton, 
Bowed  and  grinned  to  every  one, 
As  well  as  if  his  education 
Had  cost  ten  millions  to  the  nation. 


For  he  knew  the  palaces 
Of  our  kings  were  nightly  his ; 
His  the  sceptre,  crown,  and  globe, 
And  the  gold-inwoven  robe. 


So  he  Sent  his  slaves  before 
To  seize  upon  the  Bank  and  Tower, 
And  was  proceeding  with  intent 
To  meet  his  pensioned  parliament. 


When  one  fled  past,  g,  maniac  maid, 
And  her  name  was  Hope,  she  said : 
But  she  looked  more  like  Despair; 
And  she  cried  out  in  the  air : 


•'  My  father,  Time,  is  weak  and  gray 
With  waiting  for  a  better  day  ; 
See  how  idiot-like  he  stands, 
Trembling  with  his  palsied  hands ! 

XXIT. 

"He  has  had  child  after  child. 
And  the  dust  of  death  is  piled 
Over  every  one  but  me — • 
Misery  !  oh,  misery !" 


Then  she  lay  down  in  the  street. 
Right  before  the  horses'  feet,  /    , 

Expecting  with  a  patient  eye,  t-^ 

Murder,  Fraud,  and  Anarchy. 


When  between  her  and  her  foes 
A  mist,  a  light,  an  image  rose, 
Small  at  first,  and  weak  and  frail 
Like  the  vapour  of  the  vale  : 


Till  as  clouds  grow  on  the  blast, 
Like^Mftr-crowned  giants  striding  fast, 
And  glare  with  lightnings  as  they  fly, 
And  speak  in  thunder  to  the  sky. 


It  grew — a  shape  arrayed  in  mail 
Brighter  than  tlie  viper's  scale, 
And  upborne  on  wings  whoso  grain 
Was  like  the  light  of  sunny  rain. 


On  its  helm,  seen  far  away, 

A  planet,  Hke  the  morning's,  lay  ; 

And  those  plumes  it  light  rained  through. 

Like  a  shower  of  crimson  dew. 


V 

\       XXX. 

With  step  as  soft  as  wind  it  passed 
O'er  the  heads  of  men — so  fast 
That  they  knew  the  presence  there. 
And  looked — and  all  was  empty  air. 

XXXI. 

As  flowers  beneath  May's  footsteps  waken. 
As  stars  fi-om  night's  loose  hair  are  shaken, 
As  waves  arise  when  loud  winds  call, 
Thoughts  sprung  where'er  that  step  did  fall. 

SXXII. 

And  the  prostrate  multitude 
Looked — and  ankle-deep  in  blood, 
Hope,  that  maiden  most  serene, 
Was  walking  with  a  qUiet  mien : 

XXXIII. 

And  Anarchy,  the  ghastly  birth. 

Lay  dead  earth  upon  me  earth ; 

The  Horse  of  Dcath,:tameless  as  wind. 

Fled,  and  with  his  hofifs  did  grind 

To  dust  the  murderers  thronged  behind. 

xxxir. 

A  rushing  light  of  clouds  and  splendour, 
A  sense,  awakening  and  yet  tender. 
Was  heard  and  felt-t-and  at  its  close 
These  words  of  joy  and  fear  arose  : 


As  if  their  own  indignant  earth, 
Wliich  gave  the  sons  of  England  birth, 
Had  felt  their  blood  upon  her  brow, 
And  shuddering  wifti  a  mother's  throe, 

xxxjvi. 
Had  turned  every  qrop  of  blood. 
By  which  her  face  had  been  bedewed. 
To  an  accent  unwithstood, 
As  if  her  heart  had  cried  aloud : 

XXXVII. 

"Men  of  England,  Heirs  of  Glory, 
Heroes  of  unwritten  story, 
Psurslings  of  one  mighty  mother, 
Hopes  of  her,  and  one  another  ! 

XXXVIII.  ^ 

"Rise,  like  lions  after  slumber, 
In  unvanquishable  number,  >  ■ 

Shake  your  chains  to  earth  like  dew,l  / 
Which  in  sleep  had  fall'n  on  you. 
Ye  are  many,  they  arc  few. 

XXXIX. 

"  What  is  Freedom  1     Ye  can  tell 
That  which  Slavery  is  too  well, 
For  its  very  name  has  grown 
To  an  echo  of  your  own. 

XL.  . 

« 'Tis  to  work,  and  have  such  pay 
As  just  keeps  life  from  day  to  day 
In  your  limbs  as  in  a  cell 
For  the  tyrant's  use  to  dwell : 


THE    MASQUE    OF    ANARCHY. 


259 


XLI. 

■■'  So  that  ye  for  tlicm  are  madn, 
Loom,  and  plough,  ami  sword,  and  spade ; 
With  or  witliout  yo|ur  own  will,  bent 
To  tliuir  dofcncc  and  nourishment. 

"Tis  to  see  yoyr  children  weak, 
With  their  morljers  pine  and  peak, 
When  the  winter  winds  are  bleak  : — 
They  are  dying  whilst  I  speak. 
xmr. 

•  'Tis  to  hunger  for  such  diet. 
As  the  rich  man  in  his  riot 
Casts  to  the  fat  dogs  that  lie 
Surfeiting  beneath  his  eye. 

XLIV. 

»'Tis  to  let  the  Ghost  pf  Gold 
Take  from  toil  a  thousand-fold 
More  than  e'er  its  substance  could 
In  the  tyrannies  of  old : 


'  Paper  coin — that  forgery 
Of  the  title  deeds,  which  ye 
Hold  to  something  of  the  worth 
Of  the  inheritance  of  Earth. 


<  'Tis  to  be  a  slave  in  soul, 
And  to  hold  no  strong  control 
Over  your  own  wills,  but  be 
All  that  others  make  of  ye. 

XLVII. 

:'And  at  length  when  ye  complain, 
With  a  murmur  weak  and  vain, 
'Tis  to  see  the  tyrant's  crew 
Ride  over  your  wives  and  you  : — 
Blood  is  on  the  grass  lilve  dew ! 


"Then  it  is  to  feel  revenge. 
Fiercely  thirsting  to  exchange 
Blood  for  blood — and  wrong  for  wrong : 
Do  not  thus  when  ye  are  strong ! 

XLIX. 

«  Birds  find  rest  in  narrow  nest. 
When  wear}'  of  their  winged  quest ; 
Beasts  find  fare  in  woody  lair. 
When  storm  anjd  snow  are  in  the  air. 

I- 

"  Horses,  oxen,  have  a  home, 
When  from  daily  toil  they  come; 
Household  dogs,  when  the  wind  roars, 
Find  a  home  within  warm  doors. 


"Asses,  swine,  have  litter  spread. 
And  with  fitting  food  are  fed ; 
All  things  have  a  home  but  one : 
Thou,  O  Englishman,  hast  none ! 


"This  is  slavery — savage  men, 
Or  wild  beasts  within  a  den, 
Would  endure  not  as  ye  do  : 
But  such  ills  they  never  knew. 


'  What  art  thou,  Freedom  ]   Oh !  could  slaves 
Answer  from  their  living  graves 
This  demand,  tyrants  would  flee 
Like  a  dream's  dim  imagery. 


"  Thou  art  not,  as  impostors  say, 
A  sliadow  soon  to  pass  away, 
A  superstition,  and  a  name 
Echoing  from  the  cave  of  Fame. 

LV. 

"  For  the  labourer  thou  art  bread 
And  a  comely  table  spread, 
From  his  daily  labour  come, 
In  a  neat  and  happy  home. 


"Thou  art  clothes,  and  fire  and  food 
For  the  trampled  multitude  : 
No — in  countries  that  are  free 
Such  starvation  cannot  be, 
As  in  England  now  we  see. 


"To  the  rich  thou  art  a  check; 
When  his  foot  is  on  the  neck 
Of  his  victim,  thou  dost  make 
That  he  treads  upon  a  snake. 


«  Thou  art  Justice — ne'er  for  gold 
May  thy  righteous  laws  be  sold 
As  laws  are  in  England : — thou 
Shieldest  alike  the  high  and  low. 


"  Thou  art  Wisdom — fi-eemen  never 
Dream  that  God  will  doom  for  ever 
All  who  think  those  things  untrue, 
Of  which  priests  make  such  ado. 


'  Thou  art  Peace — never  by  thee 
Would  blood  and  treasure  wasted  be. 
As  tyrants  wasted  them,  when  all 
Leagued  to  quench  thy  flame  in  Gaul. 

LXI. 

"What  if  English  toil  and  blood 
Was  poured  forth,  even  as  a  flood  1 
It  availed, — O  Liberty  ! 
To  dim — but  not  extinguish  thee. 


"Thou  art  Love — the  rich  have  kist 
Thy  feet ;  and  like  him  following  Christ, 
Given  their  substance  to  the  free. 
And  through  the  rough  world  followed  thee. 


^ 


260 


:^OEMS    WRITT'EN    IN    18  19. 


"  Oh  turn  thei^^-calthr  to  arms,  and  make 
War  for  thy  bejpvod  sake, 
On  wealth,  and  Wr,  and  fraud ;  whence  they 
Drew  the  powc/which  is  their  prey. 


"Science,  and  Poetry,  and  Thought, 
Are  thy  lamps ;  they  make  the  lot 
Of  the  dwellers  in  a  cot 
Such,  they  curse  their  maker  not. 


"  Spirit,  Patiencfe,  Gentleness, 
All  that  can  adoJp^and  bless. 
Art  thou:  let  i^ede,  not  words,  express 
Thine  exceemng  loveliness. 


"Let  a  great  assembly  be 
Of  the  fearless  and  the  free. 
On  some  spot  of  English  ground, 
Where  the  plains  stretch  wide  around. 

1x711. 

«  Let  the  blue  sky  overhead. 
The  green  earth  on  which  ye  tread, 
All  that  must  eternal  be, 
Witness  the  solemnity. 

LXTIII. 

"From  the  corners  uttermost 
Of  the  bounds  of  English  coast ;  \  • 

From  every  hut,  village  and  towTi,  \ 
Where  those  who  Uve  and  suffer  mwn 
For  others'  misery,  or  their  own :      \ 


'  From  the  workhouse  and  the  prison,  \/ 

Where  pale  as  corpses  newly  risen. 
Women,  children,  young  and  old, 
Groan  for  pain,  and  weep  for  cold ; 


'  From  the  haunts  of  daily  life. 
Where  is  waged  the  daily  strife 
With  common  wants  and  common  cares. 
Which  sow  the  human  heart  with  tares. 


''  Lastly,  from  the  palaces. 
Where  the  murmur  of  distress 
Echoes,  like  the  distant  sound 
Of  a  wind,  alive  around ; 

LXXII. 

'Those  prison-halls  of  wealth  and  fashion. 
Where  some  few  feel  such  compassion 
For  those  who  groan,  and  toil,  and  wail. 
As  must  make  their  brethren  pale ; 

LXXIII. 

"Ye  who  suffer  woes  untold. 
Or  to  feel,  or  to  behold 
Your  lost  country  bought  and  sold 
With  a  price  of  blood  and  gold. 


Lxxir. 

"  Let  a  vast  assembly  be, 
And  vi-ith  great  solemnity 
Declare  with  ne'er  said  words,  that  ye 
Are,  as  God  has  made  ye,  free. 

txxr./ 
"Be  your  strong  knd  simple  words 
Keen  to  wound  ate  &Knr})ened  swords, 
And  wide  as  targcylct  them  be, 
With  their  shad^A  cover  ye. 

txxri. 

"Let  the  tyrants  pour  around 
With  a  quick  and  startling  soimd. 
Like  the  loosening  of  a  sea. 
Troops  of  armed  emblazonry. 


"  Let  the  charged  artillery  drive. 
Till  the  dark  air  seems  alive 
A\'ith  the  clash  of  clanging  wheels. 
And  the  tramp  of  horses'  heels. 


"Let  the  fixed  bayonet 
Gleam  with  sharp  desire  to  wet 
Its  bright  point  in  EngHsh  blood, 
Lookinff  keen  as  one  for  food. 


"Let  the  horsemen's  cimeters 
Wheel  and  flash,  like  sphcreless  stars. 
Thirsting  to  echpse  their  burning 
In  a  sea  of  death  and  mournuig. 


"  Stand  ye  firm  and  resolute, 
Like  a  forest  close  and  mute. 
With  folded  arms,  and  looks  which  are 
A^'eapons  of  an  unvanquished  war. 


"And  let  Panic, who  outspeeds 
The  career  of  armed  steeds, 
Pass,  a  disregarded  shade, 
Through  your  phalanx  iindismaycd. 

txxxii. 

"Let  the  laws  of  your  own  land. 
Good  or  ill,  between  ye  stand. 
Hand  to  hand,  and  foot  to  foot. 
Arbiters  of  the  dispute.       ^^---^ 


"The  old  laws  of  England — they 
^^'hose  reverend  heads  with  age  are  gray; 
Children  of  a  wiser  day ; 
And  whose  solemn  voice  must  be 
Thine  own  echo — Liberty ! 

LXXXIV. 

"  On  those  who  first  should  violate 
Such  sacred  heralds  in  their  state. 
Rest  the  blood  that  must  ensue ; 
And  it  will  not  rest  on  you. 


THE    MASQUE    OF    ANARCHY. 


261 


«  And  if  then  the  tyrants  dare, 
Let  them  ride  among  j'ou  there  ; 
Slash,  and  stab,  and  maim,  and  hew ; 
What  they  like,  that  let  them  do. 


«  With  folded  arms  and  steady  eyes, 
And  little  fear,  and  less  surprise, 
Look  upon  them  as  they  slay, 
Till  their  rage  has  died  away  : 


"  Then  they  will  return  with  shame, 
To  the  place  from  which  they  came, 
And  the  blood  thus  shed  will  speak 
In  hot  blushes  on  their  cheek 

XXXXTIII. 

«  Every  woman  in  thfi  land 
W^ill  point  at  them  a^4hey  stand — • 
They  will  hardly  dare  to  greet 
Their  acquaintance  in  the  street : 


"And  the  bold  true  warriors. 
Who  have  hugged  danger  in  the  wars, 
Will  turn  to  those  who  would  be  free, 
Ashamed  of  such  base  company : 
xc. 

"And  that  slaughter  to  the  nation 
Shall  steam  up  like  inspiration, 
Eloquent,  oracular, 
A  volcano  heard  afar: 


"  And  these  words  shall  then  become 
Like  Oppression's  thundered  doom. 
Ringing  through  each  heart  and  brain. 
Heard  again — again — again ! 

xcir. 
"Rise,  hke  lions  after  slumber 
In  unvanquishable  number ! 
Shake  your  chains  to  earth,  like  dew 
\\'hich  in  sleep  had  fallen  on  you: 
Ye  are  many — they  are  few !" 


262 


POEMS    WRITTEN    IN    18  19. 


PETER    BELL    THE    THIRD. 


MICHING  MALLECHO,  ESQ. 


It  is  a  party  in  a  parlour. 

Crammed  just  as  they  on  earth  were  crammed, 
Some  sipping  punch — some  sipping  tea  ; 
But  as  you  by  their  faces  see, 

All  silent,  and  all damned  ! 

Peter  Bell,  by  W.  WORDSWOETH. 

OPHELIA. — What  means  this,  my  lord  1 

HAMLET.— Marry,  this  is  Miching  Mallecho  ;  it  means  mischief. 

Shakspeare. 


DEDICATION. 
TO  THOMAS  BROWN,  ESQ.,  THE  YOUNGER,  fl.  F. 

Dear  Tom, 

Allow  me  to  request  you  to  intro- 
duce Mr.  Peter  Bell  to  the  respectable  family  of 
the  Fudges ;  although  he  may  fall  short  of  those 
very  considerable  personages  in  the  more  active 
properties  Vk'hich  characterize  the  Rat  and  the  Apos- 
tate, I  suspect  that  even  you,  their  historian,  will 
confess  that  he  surpasses  them  in  the  more  pecu- 
liarly legitimate  qualification  of  intolerable  dulness. 

You  know  Mr.  Examiner  Hunt ;  well — it  was 
he  who  presented  me  to  two  of  the  Mr.  Bells. 
My  intimacy  with  the  younger  Mr.  Bell  naturally 
sprung  from  this  introduction  to  his  brothers.  And 
in  presenting  him  to  you,  I  have  the  satisfaction 
of  being  able  to  assure  you  that  he  is  considerably 
the  dullest  of  the  three. 

There  is  this  particular  advantage  in  an  acquaint- 
ance with  any  one  of  the  Peter  Bells,  that  if  you 
know  one  Peter  Bell,  you  know  three  Peter 
Bells;  they  are  not  one,  but  three;  not  three,  but 
one.  An  awful  mystery,  which,  after  having  caused 
torrents  of  blood,  and  having  been  hymned  by 
groans  enough  to  deafen  the  music  of  the  spheres, 
is  at  length  illustrated  to  the  satisfaction  of  all 
parties  in  the  theological  world,  by  the  nature  of 
Mr.  Peter  Bell. 

Peter  is  a  polyhedric  Peter,  or  a  Peter  with 
many  sides.   He  changes  colours  like  a  chameleon, 


and  his  coat  like  a  snake.  He  is  a  Proteus  of  a 
Peter.  He  was  at  first  sublime,  pathetic,  impres- 
sive, profound ;  then  dull ;  then  prosy  and  dull ; 
and  now  dull — 0,  so  very  dull !  it  is  an  ultra-le- 
gitimate dulness. 

You  will  perceive  that  it  is  not  necessary  to  con- 
sider Hell  and  the  Devil  as  supernatural  machinery. 
The  whole  scene  of  my  epic  is  in  "this  world 
which  is" — So  Peter  informed  us  before  his  con- 
version to  White  Obi 

The  world  of  all  of  us,  and  where 

■  We  find  our  happiness,  or  not  at  all. 

Let  me  observe  that  I  have  spent  six  or  seven 
days  in  composing  this  sublime  piece ;  the  orb  of 
my  moonlight  genius  has  made  the  fourth  part  of 
its  revolution  round  the  dull  earth  which  you  in- 
habit, driving  you  mad,  while  it  has  retained  its 
calmness  and  its  splendour,  and  I  have  been  fitting 
this  its  last  phase  "  to  occupy  a  permanent  station 
in  the  literature  of  my  country." 

Your  works,  indeed,  dear  Tom,  sell  better;  but 
mine  are  far  superior.  The  public  is  no  judge  ; 
posterity  sets  all  to  rights. 

Allow  me  to  observe  that  so  much  has  been 
written  of  Peter  Bell,  that  the  present  history  can 
be  considered  only,  like  the  Iliad,  as  a  continuation 
of  that  series  of  cyclic  poems,  which  have  already 
been  candidates  for  bestowing  immortality  upon, 
at  the  same  time  that  they  receive  it  fi'om,  his  cha- 
racter and  adventures.  In  this  point  of  view,'  I  have 
violated  no  rule  of  syntax  in  beginning  my  composi- 


PETER    BELL    THE    THIRD. 


263 


tion  with  a  conjunction :  the  full  stop  which  closes 
the  poem  continued  by  mc,  l>einf>;,  like  the  full 
stops  at  the  end  of  the  Iliad  and  the  Odyssej',  a 
full  stop  of  a  very  qualified  import. 

Hoping  that  the  immortality  which  you  have 
given  to  the  Fudges,  you  will  receive  from  them ; 
and  in  the  firm  expectation,  that  when  London 
shall  be  a  habitation  of  bitterns,  when  St.  Paul's 
and  Westminster  Abbey  shall  stand,  shapeless  and 
nameless  ruins,  in  the  midst  of  an  unpeopled 
marsh ;  when  the  piers  of  Waterloo-Bridge  shall 
become  the  nuclei  of  islets  of  reeds  and  osiers,  and 
cast  the  jagged  shadows  of  their  broken  arches  on 


the  solitary  stream,  some  transatlantic  commentator 
will  be  weighing  in  the  scales  of  some  new  and 
now  unimagincd  system  of  criticism,  the  respective 
merits  of  the  Bells  and  the  Fudges,  and  their 
historians, 

I  remain,  dear  Tom, 
Yours  sincerely, 

MiciiiNG  Mallecho. 
December  1,  1819. 

P.  S. — Pray  excuse  the  date  of  place ;  so  soon 
as  the  profits  of  the  publication  come  in,  I  mean  to 
hire  lodgings  in  a  more  respectable  street. 


CONTENTS. 


Prologue. 
Death. 
The  Devil. 


Hell. 
Sin.     - 
Grace. 


Damnation. 
Double  Damnation. 


PROLOGUE. 


Peter  Bells,  one,  two  and  three, 

O'er  the  wide  world  wandering  be. — 

First,  the  antenatal  Peter, 

Wrapt  in  weeds  of  the  same  metre, 

The  so  long  predestined  raiment 

Clothed,  in  which  to  walk  his  way  meant 

The  second  Peter ;  whose  ambition 

Is  to  link  the  proposition. 

As  the  mean  of  two  extremes — 

(This  was  learnt  from  Aldric's  themes) 

Shielding  from  the  guilt  of  schism 

The  orthodoxal  syllogism ; 

The  First  Peter — he  who  was 

Like  the  shadow  in  the  glass 

Of  the  second,  yet  unripe, 

His  substantial  antitype. — 

Then  came  Peter  Bell  the  Second, 

Who  henceforward  must  be  reckoned 

The  body  of  a  double  soul. 

And  that  portion  of  the  whole 

Without  which  the  rest  would  seem 

Ends  of  a  disjointed  dream. — • 

And  the  Third  is  he  who  has 

O'er  the  grave  been  forced  to  pass 


To  the  other  side,  which  is, — 
Go  and  try  else, — just  like  this, 

Peter  Bell  the  First  was  Peter 
Smugger,  milder,  softer,  neater, 
Like  the  soul  before  it  is 
Bom  from  that  world  into  this. 
The  next  Peter  Bell  was  he, 
Predevote,  like  you  and  me. 
To  good  or  evil  as  may  come ; 
His  was  the  severer  doom, — 
For  he  was  an  evil  Cotter, 
And  a  polygamic  Potter.* 
And  the  last  is  Peter  Bell, 
Damned  since  our  first  parents  fell. 
Damned  eternally  to  Hell — ■ 
Surely  he  deserves  it  well ! 

*  The  oldest  scholiasts  read — 

A  dodecagamic  Potter. 

Tliis  is  at  once  more  descriptive  and  more  megalopho- 
nous— l)ut  tlie  alliteration  of  the  text  had  captivated  the 
vulgar  ear  of  the  herd  of  later  commentators. 


264 


POEMS    WRITTEN    IN    18  19. 


PART   THE   FIRST. 

Pcatl). 


AxD  Peter  Bell,  wlicn  he  had  been 
With  fresh-imported  Hell-fire  warmed, 

Grew  serious — from  his  dress  and  mien 

'Twas  very  plainly  to  be  seen 
Peter  was  quite  reformed. 

His  eyes  turned  up,  his  mouth  turned  down ; 

His  accent  caught  a  nasal  twang ; 
He  oiled  his  hair,*  there  might  be  heard 
The  grace  of  God  in  every  word 

Which  Peter  said  or  sang. 

But  Peter  now  grew  old,  and  had 

An  ill  no  doctor  could  unravel; 
His  torments  almost  drove  him  mad  ;— 
Some  said  it  was  a  fever  bad — 

Some  swore  it  was  the  gravel. 

His  holy  fiiends  then  came  about, 

And  with  long  preaching  and  persuasion, 

Convinced  the  patient  that,  without 

The  smallest  shadow  of  a  doubt, 
He  was  predestined  to  damnation. 

They  said — «  Thy  name  is  Peter  Bell ; 

Thy  skin  is  of  a  brimstone  hue ; 
Alive  or  dead — ay,  sick  or  well — 
The  one  God  made  to  rhyme  with  hell ; 

The  other,  I  think,  rhymes  with  you." 

Then  Peter  set  up  such  a  yell ! 

The  nurse,  who  with  some  water  gruel 
Was  climbing  up  the  stairs,  as  well 
As  her  old  legs  could  chmb  them — fell. 

And  broke  them  both — the  fall  was  cruel. 

The  Parson  from  the  casement  leapt 

Into  the  lake  of  Windermere — 
And  many  an  eel — though  no  adept 
In  God's  right  reason  for  it — kept 

Gnawing  his  kidneys  half  a  year. 

*  To  those  who  have  not  duly  appreciated  the  distinc- 
tion between  IVhale  and  Russia  oil,  this  attribute  might 
rather  seem  to  belong  to  the  Dandy  than  the  Evangelic. 
The  effect,  when  to  the  windward,  is  indeed  so  similar, 
that  it  requires  a  subtle  naturalist  to  discriminate  the 
animals.    They  belong,  however,  to  distinct  genera. 


And  all  the  rest  rushed  through  the  door, 
•    And  tumbled  over  one  another. 
And  broke  their  skulls. — Upon  the  floor 
Meanwhile  sat  Peter  Bell,  and  swore. 
And  cursed  his  father  and  liis  mother ; 

And  raved  of  God,  and  sin,  and  death, 

Blaspheming  like  an  infidel ; 
And  said,  that  with  his  clenched  teeth, 
He'd  seize  the  earth  from  underneath. 

And  drag  it  with  him  down  to  hell. 

As  he  was  speaking  came  a  spasm. 

And  wrenched  his  gnashing  teeth  asunder ; 
Like  one  who  sees  a  strange  phantasm 
He  lay, — there  was  a  silent  chasni 
Between  his  upper  jaw  and  under. 

And  3-ellow  death  lay  on  his  face ; 

And  a  fixed  smile  that  was  not  human 
Told,  as  I  understand  the  case, 
That  he  was  gone  to  the  wrong  place : — 

I  heard  all  this  from  the  old  woman. 

Then  there  came  down  from  Langdale  Pike 
A  cloud,  with  lightning,  wind  and  hail ; 

It  swept  over  the  mountams  like 

An  ocean, — and  I  heard  it  strike 

The  woods  and  crags  of  Grasmere  vale. 

And  I  saw  the  black  storm  come 

Nearer,  mmute  after  minute ; 
Its  thunder  made  the  cataracts  dumb ; 
With  hiss,  and  clash,  and  hollow  hum, 

It  nearcd  as  if  the  Devil  was  in  it. 

The  Devil  was  in  it : — ^lic  had  bought 

Peter  for  half-a-crown  ;  and  when 
The  storm  which  bore  liim  vanished,  nought 
That  in  the  house  that  storm  had  caught 
Was  ever  seen  again. 

The  gaping  neighbours  came  next  day — 

They  found  all  vanished  from  the  shore : 
The  Bible,  whence  he  used  to  pray, 
Half  scorched  under  a  hen-coop  lay; 
Smashed  glass — and  nothing  more ! 


PETER    BELL    THE    THIRD. 


205 


PART    THE    SECOND. 

®:l)C  Dcnil. 


TfiF,  Devil,  I  safely  can  aver, 

Has  neither  hoof,  nor  tail,  nor  sting ; 

Nor  is  he,  as  some  sages  swear, 

A  spirit,  neither  here  nor  tliere, 
In  nothing — yet  in  every  thing. 

He  is — what  we  are  ;  for  sometimes 

The  Devil  is  a  gentleman  ; 
At  others  a  bard,  bartering  rhymes 
For  sack ;  a  statesman  spinning  crimes ; 

A  swindler,  living  as  he  can  ; 

A  thief,  who  Cometh  in  the  night. 

With  whole  boots  and  net  pantaloons, 
Like  some  one  whom  it  were  not  right 
To  mention  ; — or  the  luckless  wight. 
From  whom  he  steals  nine  silver  spoons. 

But  in  this  case  he  did  appear 

Like  a  slop-merchant  from  Wapping, 

And  with  smug  face,  and  eye  severe. 

On  everj'  side  did  perk  and  peer 
Till  he  saw  Peter  dead  or  napping. 

He  had  on  an  upper  Benjamin 

(For  he  was  of  the  driving  schism) 

In  the  which  he  wrapt  his  skin 

From  the  storm  he  travelled  in, 
For  fear  of  rheumatism. 

He  called  the  ghost  out  of  the  corse  ; — 

It  was  exceedingly  like  Peter, — ■ 
Only  its  voice  was  hollow  and  hoarse — 
It  had  a  quecrish  look  of  course — • 
Its  dress  too  was  a  little  neater. 

The  Devil  knew  not  his  name  and  lot ; 

Peter  knew  not  that  he  was  Bell ; 
Each  had  an  upper  stream  of  thought, 
Which  made  all  seem  as  it  was  not ; 

Fitting  itself  to  all  things  well. 


Peter  thought  he  had  parents  dear, 
Brotliers,  sisters,  cousins,  cronies, 

In  the  fens  of  Lincolnshire; 

He  perhaps  had  found  them  there 
Had  he  gone  and  boldly  shown  Ids 

Solemn  phiz  in  his  own  village  ; 

Where  he  thought  oft  when  a  boy 
He'd  clomb  the  orchard  walls  to  pillage 
The  produce  of  his  neighbour's  tillage, 

With  marvellous  pride  and  joy. 

And  the  Devil  thought  he  had, 

'Mid  the  misery  and  confusion 
Of  an  unjust  war,  just  made 
A  fortune  by  the  gainful  trade 
Of  giving  soldiers  rations  bad — 

The  world  is  full  of  strange  delusion. 

That  he  had  a  mansion  planned 

In  a  square  like  Grosvcnor-square, 
That  he  was  aping  fashion,  and 
That  he  now  came  to  Westmorland 
To  see  what  was  romantic  there. 

And  all  this,  though  quite  ideal, — 
Ready  at  a  breath  to  vanish, — 

Was  a  state  not  more  unreal 

Than  the  peace  he  could  not  feel. 
Or  the  care  he  could  not  banish. 

After  a  little  conversation. 

The  Devil  told  Peter,  if  he  chose. 

He'd  bring  him  to  the  world  of  fashion 

By  giving  him  a  situation 

In  his  own  service — and  new  clothes. 

And  Peter  bowed,  quite  pleased  and  proud, 
And  after  waiting  some  few  days 

For  a  new  livery — dirty  yellow 

Turned  up  with  black — the  wretched  fellow 
Was  bowled  to  Hell  in  the  Devil's  chaise. 


PART    THE    THIRD. 

mi 


Hell  is  a  city  much  like  London — 

A  populous  and  a  smoky  city ; 
There  are  all  sorts  of  people  undone, 
And  there  is  little  or  no  fun  done ; 

Small  justice  shown,  and  still  less  pity. 
34 


There  is  a  Castles,  and  a  Canning, 

A  Coblictt,  and  a  Castlcreagh  ; 

All  sorts  of  caitilf  corpses  planning. 

All  sorts  of  cozcining  for  trepanning 

Corpses  less  corrupt  than  they. 


266 


POEMS    WRITTEN    IN    18  19. 


There  is  a  *  •  •  ,  who  has  lost 

His  wits,  or  sold  them,  none  knows  which ; 
He  walks  about  a  double  ghost, 
And  though  as  thin  as  Fraud  almost — 

Ever  grows  more  grim  and  rich. 

There  is  a  Chancery  Court;  a  King; 

A  manufacturing  mob;  a  set 
Of  thieves  who  by  themselves  are  sent 
Similar  thieves  to  represent ; 

An  army  ;  and  a  public  debt. 

Which  last  is  a  scheme  of  paper  money, 

And  means — being  interpreted — 
Bees  "  keep  your  wax — give  us  the  honey, 
And  we  will  plant,  while  skies  are  sunny, 
Flowers,  which  in  winter  serve  instead." 

There  is  great  talk  of  revolution — 

And  a  great  chance  of  despotism — 
German  soldiers — camps — confusion — 
Tumults — lotteries — rage — delusion — 
Gin — suicide — and  methodism. 

Taxes  too,  on  wine  and  bread. 

And  meat,  and  beer,  and  tea,  and  cheese, 
From  which  those  patriots  pure  are  fed, 
Who  gorge  before  they  reel  to  bed 

The  tenfold  essence  of  all  these. 

There  are  mincing  women,  mewing, 
(Like  cats,  who  amant  misere,*) 

Of  their  own  virtue,  and  pursuing 

Their  gentler  sisters  to  that  ruin. 

Without  which — what  where  chastity  If 

Lawyers — -judges — old  hobnobbers 

Are  there — ^bailiflTs — chancellors — 
Bishops — great  and  little  robbers — • 
Rhymesters — pamphleteers — stock-jobbers — 
Men  of  glory  in  the  wars, — 

Things  whose  trade  is,  over  ladies 

To  lean,  and  flirt,  and  stare,  and  simper, 
Till  all  that  is  divine  in  woman 
Grows  cruel,  courteous,  smooth,  inhuman, 
Crucified  'twixt  a  smile  and'  wlximper. 

Thrusting,  toiling,  wailing,  moiling. 

Frowning,  preaching — such  a  riot ! 
Each  with  never-ceasing  labour, 
Whilst  he  thinks  he  cheats  his  neighboiu*, 
Cheating  his  own  heart  of  quiet. 

*  One  of  the  attributes  in  Linnteas's  description  of 
the  Cat.  To  a  similar  cause  the  caterwauling  of  more 
than  one  species  of  this  genus  is  to  be  referred; — ex- 
cept, indeed,  that  the  poor  quadruped  is  compelled  to 
quarrel  with  its  own  pleasures,  whilst  the  biped  is 
supposed  only  to  quarrel  with  those  of  others. 

t  What  would  this  husk  and  excuse  for  a  virtue  be 
without  its  kernel  prostitution,  or  the  kernel  prostitu- 
tion without  this  husk  of  a  virtue  1  I  wonder  the 
women  of  the  town  do  not  form  an  association,  like 
the  Society  fur  the  Suppression  of  Vice,  for  the  support 
of  what  may  be  called  the  "  King,  Church,  and  Consti- 
tution" of  their  order.  But  this  subject  is  almost  too 
horrible  for  a  joke. 


And  all  these  meet  at  levees; — ■ 

Dinners  convivial  and  political ; — 
Suppers  of  ej)ic  poets; — teas. 
Where  small  talk  dies  in  agonies; — 
Breakfasts  professional  and  critical ; 

Lunches  and  snacks  so  aldermanic 

That  one  would  furnish  forth  ten  dinners, 
Where  reigns  a  Cretan-tongued  panic, 
Lest  news  Russ,  Dutch,  or  Alcraannic 

Should  make  some  losers,  and  some  winners 

At  conversazioni — balLs — 

Conventicles — and  drawing-rooms — 
Courts  of  law — committees — calls 
Of  a  morning — clubs — book-stalls — 

Churches- — masquerades — and  tombs. 

And  this  is  Hell — and  in  this  smother 

All  are  damnable  and  damned  ; 
Each  one  damning,  damns  the  other ; 
They  are  damned  by  one  another. 

By  none  other  are  they  damned. 

'Tis  a  lie  to  say,  "  God  damns  !"* 

Where  was  Heaven's  Attorney-General 

When  they  first  gave  out  such  flams  1 

Let  there  be  an  end  of  shams. 

They  are  mines  of  poisonous  mineral. 

Statesmen  damn  themselves  to  be 

Cursed ;  and  lawyers  damn  their  souls 

To  the  auction  of  a  fee ; 

Churchmen  damn  themselves  to  see 
God's  sweet  love  in  burning  coals. 

The  rich  are  damned,  beyond  all  cure, 

To  taunt,  and  starve,  and  trample  on 
The  weak  and  wretched  ;  and  the  poor 
Damn  their  broken  hearts  to  endure 
Stripe  on  stripe,  with  groan  on  groan. 

Sometimes  the  poor  are  damned  indeed 

To  take, — not  means  for  being  blest, — ■ 
But  Cobbett's  snuff,  revenge  ;  that  weed 
From  which  the  worms  that  it  doth  feed 
Squeeze  less  than  they  before  possessed. 

And  some  few,  like  we  know  who. 

Damned — ^l)ut  God  alone  knows  why — 

To  believe  their  minds  are  given 

To  make  this  ugly  Hell  a  Heaven ; 
In  which  faith  they  Uve  and  die. 

Thus,  as  in  a  town,  plague-stricken, 

Each  man  be  he  sound  or  no 
Must  indifferently  sicken ; 
As  when  day  begins  to  thicken. 

None  knows  a  pigeon  from  a  crow, — 


*  This  libel  on  our  national  oath,  and  this  accusation  of 
all  our  countrymen  of  being  in  the  daily  practice  of 
solemnly  asseverating  the  most  enormous  falsehood,  I 
fear  deserves  the  notice  of  a  more  active  Attorney-Gen- 
eral than  that  here  alluded  to. 


PETER    BELL    THE    THIRD. 


267 


So  good  and  bad,  sane  and  mad, 

The  opjjrt'ssor  and  the  oppressed ; 
Tliose  who  weep  to  sec  what  others 
iSmile  to  inlhct  upon  their  brothers ; 
Lovers,  haters,  worst  and  best ; 


All  arc  dannicd — they  breathe  an  air, 

Thii'k,  infected,  joy-dispelling : 
Each  pursues  what  seems  most  I'uir, 
Mining  like  moles,  through  mind,  and  there 
Scoop  palace-caverns  vast,  where  Care 
In  throned  state  is  ever  dwelling. 


PART    THE    FOURTH. 
0itl. 


Lo,  Peter  in  Hell's  Grosvcnor-square, 
A  footman  in  the  devil's  service ! 

And  the  misjudging  world  would  swear 

That  every  man  in  service  there 
To  virtue  would  prefer  vice. 

But  Peter  though  now  damned,  was  not 

What  Peter  was  before  damnation. 
Men  oftentimes  prepare  a  lot 
Which  ere  it  finds  them,  is  not  what 
Suits  with  their  genuine  station. 

All  things  that  Peter  saw  and  felt 

Had  a  peculiar  aspect  to  him  ; 
And  when  they  came  within  the  belt 
Of  his  own  nature,  seemed  to  melt, 

Like  cloud  to  cloud,  into  him. 

And  so  the  outward  world  uniting 

To  that  within  him,  he  became 
Considerably  uninviting 
To  those,  who  meditation  slighting, 

Were  moulded  in  a  different  frame. 

And  he  scorned  them,  and  they  scorned  him ; 

And  he  scorned  all  they  did ;  and  they 
Did  all  that  men  of  their  own  trim 
Are  wont  to  do  to  please  their  whim, 

Druiking,  lying,  swearing,  play. 

Such  were  his  fellow-servants ;  thus 
His  virtue,  like  our  own  was  built 

Too  much  on  that  indignant  fuss 

Hypocrite  Pride  stirs  up  in  us 
To  bully  out  another's  guilt. 

He  had  a  mind  which  was  somehow 
At  once  circumference  and  centre 

Of  all  he  might  or  feel  or  know ; 

Nothing  went  ever  out,  although 
Something  did  ever  enter. 

He  had  as  much  imagination         ^ 

As  a  pint-pot : — he  never  could 
Fancy  another  situation, 
From  which  to  dart  his  contemplation, 

Than  that  wherein  he  stood. 


Yet  his  was  individual  mind, 

And  new  created  all  he  saw 
In  a  new  manner,  and  refined 
Those  new  creations,  and  combined 

Them,  by  a  master-spirit's  law. 

Thus — though  unimaginative — 

An  apprehension  clear,  intense, 
Of  liis  mind's  work,  had  made  alive 
The  things  it  wrought  on ;  I  believe 

Waliening  a  sort  of  thought  in  sense. 

But  from  the  first  'twas  Peter's  drift 

To  be  a  kind  of  moral  eunuch. 
He  touched  the  hem  of  nature's  shift, 
Felt  faint — and  never  dared  uplift 

The  closest,  all-concealing  tmiic. 

She  laughed  the  wliile,  with  an  arch  smile, 
And  kissed  him  with  a  sister's  kiss, 

And  said — "  My  best  Diogenes, 

I  love  you  well — but,  if  you  please, 
Tempt  not  again  my  deepest  bUss. 

"  'Tis  you  are  cold — for  I,  not  coy. 

Yield  love  for  love,  frank,  warm,  and  true  ; 

And  Burns,  a  Scottish  peasant  boy — . 

His  errors  prove  it — knew  my  joy 
More,  learned  friend,  than  you. 

"  Bocca  hacciata  non  perde  veiiiura 

Anzi  rinnuova  conic  fa  la  luna  : — 
So  thought  Boccaccio,  whose  sweet  words  might 

cure  a 
Male  prude,  like  you,  firom  what  you  now  en- 
dure, a 
Low-tide  in  soul,  Hke  a  stagnant  laguna." 

Then  Peter  rubbed  his  eyes  severe. 

And  smoothed  his  spacious  forehead  down. 
With  his  broad  palm ; — 'twixt  love  and  fear, 
He  looked,  as  he  no  doubt  felt,  queer, 
And  in  his  dream  sate  down. 

The  devil  was  no  uncommon  creature ; 

A  Icaden-wittcd  thief — just  huddled 
Out  of  the  dross  and  scum  of  nature ; 
A  toadlike  hnnp  of  limb  and  feature. 

With  mind,  and  heart,  and  fancy  muddled. 


268 


POEMS    WRITTEN    IN    18  19. 


He  was  that  hcav}',  dull,  cold  thing, 

The  spirit  of  evil  well  may  be : 
A  drone  too  base  to  have  a  sting ; 
Who  gluts,  and  grimes  his  lazy  wing, 

And  calls  lust,  luxury. 

Now  he  was  quite  the  kind  of  wight 

Round  whom  collect,  at  a  fixed  a;ra, 
Venison,  turtle,  hock,  and  claret, — 
Good  cheer — and  those  who  come  to  share  it- 
And  best  East  Indian  madeira! 

It  was  his  fancy  to  invite 

Men  of  science,  wit  and  learning, 

Who  came  to  lend  each  other  light ; 

He  proudly  thought  that  his  gold's  might 
Had  set  those  spirits  burning. 


And  men  of  learning,  science,  wit, 
Considered  him  as  you  and  I 

Think  of  some  rotten  tree,  and  sit 

Lounging  and  dining  under  it, 
Exposed  to  the  wide  sky. 

And  all  the  while  with  loose  fat  smile. 

The  willing  wretch  sat  winking  there, 
Beheving  'twas  his  power  that  made 
That  jovial  scene — and  that  all  paid 
Homage  to  his  unnoticed  chair. 

Though  to  be  sure  this  place  was  Hell ; 

He  was  the  DcvU — and  all  they — 
What  though  the  claret  circled  well, 
And  wit,  like  ocean,  rose  and  fell  1 — 

Were  damned  eternally. 


PART    THE    FIFTH. 

(Svace. 


Among  the  guests  who  often  staid 

Till  the  Devil's  petits-soupers, 
A  man  there  came,  fair  as  a  maid, 
And  Peter  noted  what  he  said, 

Standing  behind  his  master's  chair. 

He  was  a  mighty  poet — and 

A  subtle-souled  psychologist ; 
All  things  he  seemed  to  understand. 
Of  old  or  new — of  sea  or  land — 

But  his  own  mind — which  was  a  mist. 

This  was  a  man  who  might  have  turned 
Hell  into  Heaven — and  so  in  gladness 

A  heaven  unto  himself  have  earned ; 

But  he  in  shadows  undisccrned 

Trusted, — and  damned  himself  to  madness. 

He  spoke  of  poetry,  and  how 

"  Divine  it  was — a  light — a  lovo — 

A  spirit  which  like  wind  doth  blow 

As  it  listcth,  to  and  fro  ; 

A  dew  rained  down  from  God  above. 

«  A  power  which  comes  and  goes  like  dream, 
And  which  none  can  ever  trace — 

Heaven's    light    on    earth — Truth's    brightest 
beam." 

And  when  he  ceased  there  lay  the  gleam 
Of  those  words  upon  his  face. 

Now  Peter,  when  he  heard  such  talk. 

Would,  heedless  of  a  broken  pate. 
Stand  like  a  man  asleep,  or  baulk 
Some  wishing  guest  of  knife  or  fork. 
Or  drop  and  break  his  master's  plate. 

At  night  he  oft  would  start  and  wake 
Like  a  lover,  and  began 


In  a  wild  measure  songs  to  make 
On  moor,  and  glen,  and  rocky  lake. 
And  on  the  heart  of  man. 

And  on  the  universal  sky — 

And  the  wide  earth's  bosom  green,— 
And  the  sweet,  strange  mystery 
Of  what  beyond  these  tilings  may  lie, 

And  yet  remain  unseen. 

For  in  his  thought  he  visited 

The  spots  in  which,  ere  dead  and  damned. 
He  his  wayward  life  had  led ; 
Yet  knew  not  whence  the  thoughts  were  fed. 

Which  thus  his  fancy  crammed. 

And  these  obscure  remembrances 

Stirred  such  harmony  in  Peter, 
That  whensoever  he  should  please. 
He  could  speak  of  rocks  and  trees 

In  poetic  metre. 

For  though  it  was  without  a  sense 
Of  memory,  yet  he  remembered  well 

Many  a  ditch  and  quick-set  fence ; 

Of  lakes  he  had  intelligence. 

He  knew  something  of  heath,  and  fell. 

He  had  also  dim  recollections 

Of  pcdlers  tramping  on  their  rounds ; 
Milk-pans  and  pails ;  and  odd  collections 
Of  saws,  and  proverbs ;  and  reflections 
Old  parsons  make  in  burying-grounds. 

But  Peter's  verse  was  clear,  and  came 
Announcing  from  the  frozen  hearth 

Of  a  cold  age,  that  none  might  tame 

The  soul  of  that  diviner  flame 
It  augured  to  the  Eaith. 


PETER    BELL    THE    THIRD. 


2G9 


Like  gentle  rains,  on  the  dry  plains, 

Making  that  green  which  late  was  gray, 
Or  like  the  sudden  moon,  that  stains 
Some  gloomy  chamber's  window  panes 
\^'ith  a  broad  light  lUce  day. 

Gave  twenty  pounds  for  some ; — then  scorning 
A  footman's  yellow  coat  to  wear, 
Peter,  too  proi*id  of  heart,  I  fear, 

Listantly  gave  the  Devil  warning. 

For  language  was  in  Peter's  hand, 

Like  clay,  while  he  was  yet  a  potter; 
And  he  made  songs  for  all  the  land. 
Sweet  both  to  feel  and  understaml, 
As  pipkins  late  to  mountain  Colter. 

Whereat  the  Devil  took  offence, . 

And  swore  in  his  soul  a  great  oath  then, 
"  That  for  Ills  damned  impertinence. 
He'd  bring  him  to  a  proper  sense 

Of  what  was  due  to  gentlemen !"— 

PART    THE    SIXTH. 

Dnmnnlion. 


"  0  THAT  mine  enemy  had  written 

A  book  !" — cried  Job : — a  fearful  curse ; 

If  to  the  Arab,  as  the  Briton, 

'Twas  galling  to  be  critic-bitten  : — 
The  Devil  to  Peter  wished  no  worse. 

When  Peter's  next  new  book  found  vent, 
The  Devil  to  all  the  first  Reviews 

A  copy  of  it  slily  sent. 

With  five-pound  note  as  compliment. 
And  this  short  notice — "  Pray  abuse." 

Then  seriatim,  month  and  quarter. 

Appeared  such  mad  tirades. — One  said — 
"  Peter  seduced  Mrs.  Foy's  daughter. 
Then  drowned  the  mother  in  Ullswater, 
The  last  thing  as  he  went  to  bed." 

Another — "Let  him  shave  his  head! 

Where's  Dr.  Willis  ? — Or  is  he  joking  1 
What  does  the  rascal  mean  or  hope, 
No  longer  imitating  Pope, 

In  that  barbarian  Shakspeare  poking"!" 

One  more,  "  Is  incest  not  enough  1 

And  must  there  be  adultery  too  1 
Grace  after  meat  ?   Miscreant  and  Liar ! 
Thief!  Blackguard!  Scoundrel!  Fool!  Hell-fire 

Is  twenty  times  too  good  for  you. 

"  By  that  last  book  of  yours  we  think 

You've  double  damned  yourself  to  scorn ; 
We  warned  you  whilst  j-ct  on  the  brink 
You  stood.     From  your  black  name  will  shrink 
The  babe  that  is  unborn." 

All  these  Reviews  the  Devil  made 

Up  in  a  parcel,  which  he  had 
Safely  to  Peter's  house  conveyed. 
For  carriage,  ten-pence  Peter  paid — 

Untied  them — read  them — 'Went  half  mad. 

«  What !"  cried  he,  « this  is  my  reward 

For  nights  of  thought,  and  days  of  toil  ] 
Do  poets,  but  to  bo  abhorred 
By  men  of  whom  they  never  heard. 
Consume  their  spirits'  oil  ? 


«  What  have  I  done  to  them  ? — and  who 

Is  Mrs.  Foy  1     'Tis  very  cruel 
To  speak  of  me  and  Emma  so  ! 
Adultery  !  God  defend  me  !  Oh  ! 

I've  half  a  mind  to  fight  a  duel. 

"  Or,"  cried  he,  a  grave  look  collecting, 

"  Is  it  my  genius,  like  the  moon. 
Sets  those  who  stand  her  face  inspecting. 
That  face  within  their  brain  reflecting. 

Like  a  crazed  bell-chime,  out  of  tune  V 

For  Peter  did  not  know  the  town, 
But  thought,  as  country  readers  do, 

For  half  a  guinea  or  a  crown. 

He  bought  oblivion  or  renown 

From  God's  own  voice*  in  a  review. 

All  Peter  did  on  this  occasion 

Was,  writing  some  sad  stuff  in  prose. 

It  is  a  dangerous  invasion 

When  poets  criticise ;  their  station 
Is  to  delight,  not  pose. 

The  Devil  then  sent  to  Lcipsic  fair, 

For  Born's  translation  of  Kant's  book ; 
A  world  of  words,  tail  foremost,  where 
Riglit — ^wrong — false — true — and  foul- — and  fair, 
As  in  a  lottery-wheel  are  shook. 

Five  thousand  crammed  octavo  pages 

Of  German  psychologies, — he 
Who  his  furor  verhoram  assuages 
Thereon,  deserves  just  seven  month's  wages 

More  than  will  e'er  he  due  to  me. 

I  looked  on  them  nine  several  days. 
And  then  I  saw  that  they  were  bad; 

A  fiicnd,  too,  spoke  in  their  dispraise, — 

He  never  read  them ; — with  amaze 
I  found  Sir  William  Drummond  had. 


*  Vox  populi,  vox  del.     As  Mr.  Godwin  truly  observes 
of  a  more  famous  sayin?,  of  some  merit  as  a  popular 
maxim,  but  totally  destitute  of  philosophical  accuracy. 
z  2 


270 


POEMS    WRITTEN    IN    18  19. 


When  the  book  came,  the  Devil  sent 

It  to  P.  Verbovalc,*  Esquire, 
With  a  brief  note  of  compliment. 
By  that  iiisjht's  Carlisle  mail.     It  went, 

And  set  his  soul  on  fire. 

Fire,  \vhicli,f.c  luce  pr,f bens  fiimum. 

Made  him  beyond  the  bottom  see 
Of  truth's  clear  well — wlion  I  and  you  Ma'am, 
Go,  as  we  shall  do,  siibtcr  humum, 
We  may  know  more  than  he. 

Now  Peter  ran  to  seed  in  soul 

Into  a  walking  paradox  ; 
For  he  was  neither  part  nor  whole, 
Nor  good,  nor  bad — nor  knave  nor  fool, 

— Among  the  woods  and  rocks. 

Furious  he  rode,  wlicre  late  he  ran. 
Lashing  and  spurring  his  tame  hobby ; 

Turned  to  a  formal  puritan, 

A  solemn  and  unsexual  man, — 
He  half  believed  White  Obi. 

This  steed  in  vision  he  would  ride. 

High  trotting  over  nine-inch  bridges, 
With  Flibbertigibbet,  imp  of  pride, 
Mocking  and  mowing  by  his  side — • 
A  mad-brained  goblin  for  a  guide — 
Over  corn-fields,  gates,  and  hedges. 

After  these  ghastly  rides,  he  came 

Home  to  his  heart,  and  found  from  thence 

Much  stolen  of  its  accustomed  flame  ; 

His  thoughts  grew  weak,  drowsy,  and  lame 
Of  their  intelligence. 

To  Peter's  view,  all  seemed  one  hue ; 

He  was  no  whig,  he  was  no  tory ; 
No  Deist  and  no  Christian  he ; — 
He  got  so  subtle,  that  to  be 

Nothing,  was  all  his  glory. 

One  single  point  in  his  belief 

From  his  organization  sprung, 
The  heart-enrooted  faith,  the  chief 
Ear  in  his  doctrines'  blighted  sheaf, 

That  ■'  happiness  is  wrong ;" 

So  thought  Calvin  and  Dominic ; 

So  think  their  fierce  successors,  who 
Even  now  would  neither  stint  nor  stick 
Our  flesh  from  off  our  bones  to  pick. 

If  they  might  "  do  their  do." 

His  morals  tlius  were  undermined  : — 
The  old  Peter — the  hard,  old  Potter 

Was  born  anew  within  his  mind ; 

He  grew  dull,  harsh,  sly,  unrefined. 
As  when  he  tramped  beside  the  Ottcr.t 

*  Quasi,  Q^ni  valet  verba: — i.  e.  all  the  words  which 
have  been,  are,  or  may  be  expended  by,  for.  against, 
witli,  or  on  him.  A  sufficient  proof  of  the  utility  of  this 
history.  Peter's  progenitor  who  selected  this  name 
seems  to  have  possessed  a  pure  anticipated  eon-nition  of 
tlie  nature  and  modesty  of  this  ornainont  ofhis  posterity. 

t  A  famous  river  in  the  new  Atlantis  of  the  Dynasto- 
phylic  Pantisocralists. 


In  the  death  hues  of  agony 

liambently  flashing  from'*  fish, 
Now  Peter  felt  amused  to  see 
Shades  like  a  rainbow's  rise  and  flee, 
Mixed  with  a  certain  hungry  wish.* 

So  in  his  Country's  dying  face 

He  looked — and  lovely  as  she  lay, 
Seeking  in  vain  his  last  embrace, 
Wailing  her  own  abandoned  case, 

With  hardened  sneer  he  turned  away: 

And  coolly  to  his  own  soul  said ;— "^-h^i, 

"  Do  you  not  think  that  we  might  make 
A  poem  on  her  when  she's  dead : — 
Or,  no — a  thought  is  in  my  head — 
Her  shroud  for  a  new  sheet  I'll  take. 

"  My  wife  wants  one. — Let  who  will  bury 
This  mangled  corpse !     And  I  and  you. 
My  dearest  Soul,  will  then  make  merry, 
As  the  Prince  Regent  did  with  Sherry, — 
Ay — and  at  last  desert  me  too." 

And  so  his  soul  would  not  be  gay. 

But  moaned  within  him  ;  like  a  fawn 
Moaning  within  a  cave,  it  lay 
Wounded  and  wasting,  day  by  day, 
Till  all  its  life  of  life  was  gone. 

As  troubled  skies  stain  waters  clear. 

The  storm  in  Peter's  heart  and  mind 
Now  made  his  verses  dark  and  queer  : 
They  were  the  ghosts  of  what  they  were, 
Shaking  dim  grave-clothes  in  the  wind. 

For  he  now  raved  enormous  folly. 

Of  Baptisms,  Sunday-Schools,  and  Graves, 
'Twould  make  George  Colman  melancholy. 
To  have  heard  him,  like  a  male  Molly, 

Chaunting  those  stupid  staves. 

Yet  the  Reviews,  who  heaped  abuse 
On  Peter  while  he  wrote  for  freedom. 

So  soon  as  in  his  song  they  spy. 

The  folly  which  soothes  tyranny. 
Praise  him,  for  those  who  feed  'em. 

"  He  was  a  man,  too  great  to  scan ; 

A  planet  lost  in  truth's  keen  rays: — • 
His  virtue,  awful  and  prodigious ; — 
He  was  the  most  sublime,  religious, 

Pure-minded  Poet  of  these  days." 


*  See  the  description  of  the  beautiful  colours  pro- 
duced durinff  the  agonizing  death  of  a  number  of  trout, 
in  the  fourth  part  of  a  long  poem  in  blank  verse,  pub- 
lished within  a  few  years.  That  poem  contains  curious 
evidence  of  the  cradital  hardening  of  a  strong  but  cir- 
cumscribed sensibility,  of  the  perversion  of  a  pene- 
trating but  panic-stricken  understanding.  The  author 
might  have  derived  a  lesson  which  he  had  probably  for- 
gotten from  these  sweet  and  sublime  verses. 

This  lesson,  Shepherd,  let  us  two  divide, 
Taught  both  by  what  shef  shows  and  what  conceals, 
Never  to  blend  our  pleasure  or  our  pride 
With  sorrow  of  the  meanest  thing  tliat  feels. 
t  Nature. 


PETER    BELL    THE    THIRD. 


271 


As  soon  as  he  read  that,  cried  Peter, 
"  Eureka  !  I  have  found  the  way 
To  niiiko  a  better  thing  of  metre 
Than  e'er  was  made  by  living  creature 
Up  to  this  blessed  day." 

Then  Peter  wrote  odes  to  the  Devil ; — 
In  one  of  which  he  meekly  said: 

"  May  Carnage  and  Slaughter, 

Thy  niece  and  thy  daughter, 

May  Rapine  and  Famine, 

Thy  gorge  ever  crainniing. 

Glut  thee  with  li\'ing  and  dead ! 


"  May  death  and  damnation, 

And  consternation, 
Flit  up  from  hell  with  pure  intent! 

Slash  them  at  Manchester, 

Glasgow,  Leeds  and  Chester  ; 
Drench  all  with  blood  from  Avon  to  Trent. 

"  Let  thy  body-guard  yeomen 

Hew  down  babes  and  women, 
And  laugh  with  liold  triumph  till  Heaven  be  rent, 

MHien  Molocli  in  Jewry, 

Munched  cliiklren  with  fury, 
It  was  thou,  Devil,  dining  with  pure  intent."* 


PART    THE    SEVENTH. 

Double  Damnation. 


TtiE  Devil  now  knew  his  proper  cue. — 
Soon  as  he  read  the  .ode,  he  drove 

To  his  fi-iend  Lord  Mac  Murderchouse's, 

A  man  of  interest  in  both  houses, 
And  said  : — "  For  money  or  for  love, 

"Pray  find  some  cure  or  sinecure-; 

To  feed  from  the  superfluous  taxes, 
A  friend  of  ours — a  poet — fewer 
Have  fluttered  tamer  to  the  lure 

Than  he."     His  lordship  stands  and  racks  liis 

Stupid  brains,  while  one  might  count 

As  many  beads  as  he  had  boroughs, — 
At  length  replies  ;  from  his  mean  front. 
Like  one  who  rubs  out  an  account. 

Smoothing  away  the  unmeaning  furrows ; 
"  It  happens  fortunately,  dear  Sir, 

I  can.     I  hope  I  need  require 
No  pledge  from  you,  that  he  will  stir 
In  our  affairs ; — like  Oliver, 

That  he'll  be  worthy  of  his  hire." 

These  words  exchanged,  the  news  sent  off 

To  Peter,  home  the  Devil  hied, — • 
Took  to  his  bed ; — he  had  no  cough. 
No  doctor, — meat  and  drink  enough, — 
Yet  that  same  night  he  died. 

The  Devil's  corpse  was  leaded  down ; 

His  decent  heirs  enjoyed  his  pelf, 
Mourning-coaches,  many  a  one, 
Followed  his  hearse  along  the  town  : — 

Where  was  the  Devil  himself] 

When  Peter  heard  of  his  promotion, 

His  eyes  grew  like  two  stars  for  bliss ; 
There  was  a  bow  of  sleek  devotion, 
Engendering  in  his  back ;  each  motion 
Seemed  a  lord's  shoe  to  kiss. 

He  hired  a  house,  bought  plate,  and  made 

A  genteel  drive  up  to  his  door. 
With  sifted  gravel  neatly  laid, — 
As  if  defying  ail  who  said, 

Peter  was  ever  poor. 


But  a  disease  soon  struck  into 

The  very  life  and  soul  of  Peter — ■ 
He  walked  about — slept — had  the  hue 
Of  health  upon  his  cheeks — and  few 
Dug  better — none  a  heartier  eater. 

And  yet  a  strange  and  horrid  curse 

Clung  upon  Peter,  night  and  day. 
Month  after  month  the  thing  grew  worse. 
And  deadlier  than  in  this  my  verse, 
I  can  find  strength  to  say. 

Peter  was  dull — he  was  at  first 

Dull — O,  so  dull — so  very  dull ! 
Whether  he  talked,  wrote,  or  rehearsed — 
Still  with  this  dulness  was  he  cursed — 

Dull — beyond  conception — dull. 

No  one  could  read  his  books — no  mortal. 

But  a  few  natural  friends,  would  hear  him ; 
The  parson  came  not  near  his  portal ; 
His  state  was  like  that  of  the  immortal 

Described  by  Swift — no  man  could  bear  him. 
His  sister,  wife,  and  children  yawned, 

With  a  long,  slow,  and  drear  ennui. 
All  human  patience  far  beyond; 
Their  hopes  of  Heaven  each  would  have  pawned, 

Any  where  else  to  be. 

But  in  his  verse,  and  in  his  prose. 

The  essence  of  his  dulness  was 
Concentred  and  compressed  so  close, 
'Tvvould  have  made  Guatimozin  doze 

On  his  red  gridiron  of  brass. 

*  It  is  curious  to  observe  how  often  extremes  meet. 
Col)l)ott  and  Peter  use  the  same  language  for  a  different 
purpose  ;  Peter  is  indeed  a  sort  of  metrical  Colihett. 
Cobbctt  is,  however,  more  mischievous  than  Peter, 
because  he  pollutes  a  holy  and  now  unconquerable 
cause  with  the  principles  of  legitimate  murder  :  whilst 
the  other  only  malves  a  bad  one  ridiculous  and  odious. 

If  either  Peter  or  Cobbett  should  see  this  note,  each 
will  fee!  more  indignation  at  being  compared  to  the 
other  than  at  any  censure  implied  in  the  moral  perver- 
sion laid  to  their  charge. 


273 


POEMS    WRITTEN    IN    1819. 


A  printer's  boy,  folding  those  pages, 

Fell  slumberoiisly  upon  one  side ; 
Like  those  fiimed  seven  who  slept  three  ages. 
To  wakeful  frenzy's  vigil  rages, 

As  opiates,  were  the  same  applied. 
Even  the  Reviewers  who  were  hired 

To  do  the  w  ork  of  his  reviewing, 
With  adamantine  nerves,  grew  tired  ; — 
Gaping  and  torpid  tliey  retired, 

'fo  dream  of  what  they  should  be  doing. 
And  worse  and  worse,  the  drowsy  curse 

Yawned  in  him,  till  it  grew  a  pest — 
A  wide  contagious  atmosphere. 
Creeping  like  cold  through  all  things  near ; 

A  power  to  infect  and  to  infest. 
His  servant-maids  and  dogs  grew  dull ; 

His  kitten,  late  a  sportive  elf. 
The  woods  and  lakes,  so  beautiful. 
Of  dim  stupidity  were  full, 

All  grew  dull  as  Peter's  self. 

The  earth  under  his  feet — the  springs, 

Which  lived  within  it  a  quick  life, 
The  air,  the  winds  of  many  wings, 
That  fan  it  with  new  murmurings. 
Were  dead  to  their  harmonious  strife. 


The  birds  and  beasts  within  the  wood. 
The  insects,  and  each  creeping  thing. 

Were  now  a  silent  multitude ; 

Love's  work  was  left  unwrought — no  brood 
Near  Peter's  house  took  wing. 

And  every  neighbouring  cottager 

Stupidly  yawned  upon  the  other : 
No  jackass  brayed;  no  little  cur 
Cocked  up  his  ears ; — no  man  would  stir 
To  save  a  dying  mother. 

Yet  all  from  that  charmed  district  went 

But  some  half-idiot  and  half-knave. 
Who  rather  than  pay  any  rent, 
Would  live  with  marvellous  content, 
Over  his  father's  grave. 

No  bailiff  dared  within  that  space,'    ,.v 
For  fear  of  the  dull  charm,  to  enter; 

A  man  would  bear  upon  his  face, 

For  fifteen  months  in  any  case. 
The  yawn  of  such  a  venture. 

Seven  miles  above — below — around— 
This  pest  of  dulness  holds  its  sway ; 

A  ghastly  life  without  a  sound  ; 

To  Peter's  soul  the  spell  is  bound — 
How  should  it  ever  pass  away  1 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


273 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


LINES, 

WllITTEX    DUIUXG    THE    C ASTLF.TIE AGH 
AIIMIXISTUATIOX. 

Corpses  arc^olJ  in  tlie  tomb, 
Stones  oii  the  pavement  are  dumb, 
Abortions  ate  dead  in  the  womb, 
And  their  mothers  look  pale — hke  the  white  shore 
Of  Albion,  free  no  more. 

Her  sons  arc  as  stones  in  the  way — 
They  are  masses  of  senseless  clay — ■ 
They  are  trodden  and  move  not  away, — 
The  abortion,  with  which  she  travaileth, 
Is  Liberty — smitten  to  death. 

Then  trample  and  dance,  thou  Oppressor, 
For  thy  Victim  is  no  redressor. 
Thou  art  sole  lord  and  possessor 
Of  her  corpses,  and  clods,  and  abortions — they  pave 
Thy  path  to  the  grave.  .  . 

Hcarest  thou  the  festival  din. 
Of  death,  and  destruction,  and  sin. 
And  wealth,  crying  Havoc  !  within — • 
'Tis  the  Bacchanal  triumph,  which  makes  truth 
Thine  Epithalamium.  [dumb, 

Ay,  marry  thy  ghastly  wife  ! 
Let  fear,  and  disquiet,  and  strife 
Spread  thy  couch  in  the  chamber  of  life. 
Marry  Ruin,  thou  tyrant!  and  God  be  thy  guide 
To  the  bed  of  the  bride. 


SONG  / 

TO    THE    MEX    OF    ENGLAND. 

Men  of  England,  wherefore  plough 
For  the  lords  who  lay  ye  low  ? 
Wherefore  weave  with  toil  and  care,    ■" 
The  rich  robes  your  tyrants  wear  1 

Wherefore  feed,  and  clothe,  and  save, 
From  the  cradle  to  the  grave. 
Those  ungrateful  drones  who  .would 
Drain  your  sweat — ^nay,  driiik  your  blood  ! 

Wherefore,  Bees  of  England,  forge 
Many  a  weapon,  chain,  and  scourge, 
That  these  stingless  drones  may  spoil 
The  forced  produce  of  your  toil! 

Have  ye  leisure,  comfort,  calm, 
Shelter,  food,  love's  gentle  balm? 
Or  what  is  it  ye  buy  so  dear 
With  your  pain  and  with  your  fear? 
35 


The  seed  yc  sow,  anotlicr  reaps ; 
The  wealth  ye  find,  another  keeps; 
'J'lie  robes  yc  weave,  another  wears ; 
The  arms  ye  forge,  another  bears. 

Sow  seed, — but  let  no  tyrant  reap ; 
Find  wealth, — let  no  impostor  heap ; 
Weave  robes. — let  not  the  idle  wear ; 
Forge  arms, — in  your  defence  to  bear. 

Shrink  to  your  cellars,  holes,  and  cells ; 
In  halls  ye  deck,  another  dwells. 
Why  shake  the  chains  ye  wrought  ?     Ye  see 
The  steel  ye  tempered  glance  on  ye. 

With  plough  and  spade,  and  hoe  and  loom, 
Trace  your  grave,  and  build  your  tomb. 
And  weave  your  winding-sheet,  till  fair 
England  be  your  sepulchre. 


SIMILES. 

FOR    TWO    POLITICAL    CHARACTERS    OF     1819. 

As  from  an  ancestral  oak 

Two  empty  ravens  sound  their  clarion, 
Yell  by  yell,  and  croak  by  croak. 
When  they  scent  the  noonday  smoke 

Of  fresh  human  carrion : — 

As  two  gibbering  night-birds  flit. 

From  their  bowers  of  deadly  hue, 
Through  the  night  to  frighten  it. 
When  the  morn  is  in  a  fit, 

And  the  stars  are  none  or  few : — 

As  a  shark  and  dog-fish  wait 

Under  an  Atlantic  isle. 
For  the  negro-ship,  whose  freight 
Is  the  theme  of  their  debate. 

Wrinkling  their  red  gills  the  while — 

Are  ye,  two  vultures  sick  for  battle. 

Two  scorpions  under  one  wet  stone. 
Two  bloodless  wolves  whose  dry  throats  rattle. 
Two  crows  perched  on  the  mun-ained  cattle, 
Two  vipers  tangled  into  one. 


AN  ODE, 

TO    THE    ASSEIITORS    OF    LIBERTT. 

Arise,  arise,  arise  ! 
There  is  blood  on  the  earth  that  denies  ye  bread ; 
Be  your  wounds  like  eyes 
To  weep  for  the  dead,  the  dead,  the  dead. 


274 


POEMS   WRITTEN    IN     18  19. 


What  other  grief  were  it  just  to  pay  ] 

Your  sons,  your  wives,  your  brethren,  were  they ; 

Who  said  they  were  slain  on  the  battle  day  1 

Awaken,  awaken,  awaken ! 
The  slave  and  the  tyrant  arc  twin-born  foes; 
Be  the  cold  chains  shaken 
To  the  dust,  where  your  kjndrcd  repose,  repose: 
Their  bones  in  the  grave  will  start  and  move, 
When  they  hear  the  voices  of  those  they  love, 
Most  loud  in  the  holy  combat  above. 

Wave,  wave  high  the  banner ! 
When  Freedom  is  riding  to  conquest  by : 

Though  the  slaves  that  fan  her 
Be  famine  and  toil,  giving  sigh  for  sigh. 
And  ye  who  attend  her  imperial  car. 
Lift  not  your  hands  in  the  banded  war, 
But  in  her  defence  whose  children  ye  are. 

Glory,  glory,  glory. 
To  those  who  have  greatly  suffered  and  done ! 

Never  name  in  story 
Was  greater  than  that  which  ye  shall  have  won. 
Conquerors  have  conquered  their  foes  alone, 
Whose  revenge,  pride,  and  power,  they  have  over- 
thrown : 
Ride  ye,  more  victorious,  over  your  own. 

Bind,  bind  every  brow 
With  crownals  of  violet,  ivy,  and  pine  : 

Hide  the  blood-stains  now 
With  hues  which  sweet  nature  has  made  divine, 
Green  strength,  azure  hope,  and  eternity. 
But  let  not  the  pansy  among  them  be; 
Ye  were  injured,  and  that  means  memory. 


ENGLAND  IN  1819. 

An-  old,  mad,  blind,  despised,  and  dying  king, — 
Princes,  the  dregs  of  their  dull  race,  who  flow 
Through    public    scorn  —  mud    from    a   muddy 

spring, — 
Rulers,  who  neither  see,  nor  feel,  nor  know, 
But  leech-like  to  their  fiiiiting  country  cling. 
Till  they  drop,  blind  in  blood,  witliout  a  blow, — • 
A  peojile  starved  and  stabbed  in  the  untilled  field, — 
An  army,  which  liherticide  and  prey 
Makes  as  a  two-edged  sword  to  all  who  wield. 
Golden  and  sanguine  laws  which  tempt  and  slay, — 
Religion  Ghristless,  Godless — a  book  sealed ; 
A  Senate — Time's  worst  statute  unrepealed, — 
Are  graves,  from  which  a  glorious  Phantom  may 
Burst,  to  illume  our  tempestuous  day. 


ODE  TO  HEAVEN. 
Ciiouus  OP  Spirits. 

FIUST    SPIUIT. 

PAtACK-nooF  of  cloudless  nights! 
Paradise  of  golden  Ughts  ! 


Deep,  immeasurable,  vast, 
Which  art  now,  and  which  wert  then! 

Of  the  present  and  the  past, 
Of  the  eternal  where  and  when, 

Presence-chamber,  temple,  home, 

Ever-canopying  dome. 

Of  acts  and  ages  yet  to  come  ! 


Glorious  shapes  have  life  in  thee, 
Earth,  and  all  earth's  company; 

Living  globes  which  ever  throng 
Thy  deep  chasms  and  wildernesses ; 

And  green  worlds  that  gUde  along ; 
And  swift  stars  with  flashing  tresses ; 

And  icy  moons  most  cold  and  bright, 

And  mighty  suns  beyond  the  night, 

Atoms  of  intensest  hght. 


Even  thy  name  is  as  a  god, 
Heaven  !  for  thou  art  the  abode 

Of  that  power  which  is  the  glass 
Wherein  man  his  nature  sees. 

Generations  as  they  pass 
Worship  thee  with  bended  knees. 

Their  unremaining  gods  and  they 

Like  a  river  roll  away ; 

Thou  remainest  such  alway. 

SECOND    SPIRIT. 

Thou  art  but  the  mind's  first  chamber. 

Round  which  its  young  fancies  clamber, 
Like  weak  insects  in  a  cave, 

Lighted  up  by  stalactites ; 
But  the  portal  of  the  gi-ave. 

Where  a  world  of  new  dehghts 
Will  make  thy  best  glories  seem 
But  a  dim  and  noonday  gleam 
From  the  shadow  of  a  dream ! 


THIRD    SPIRIT. 

Peace !  the  abyss  is  wreathed  with  scorn 

At  your  j)resumption,  atom-born  ! 
What  is  heaven  1   and  what  are  ye 

Who  its  brief  expanse  inherit  1 

What  are  suns  and  spheres  which  flee 

With  the  instinct  of  that  spirit 
Of  which  yc  arc  but  a  part  1 
Drops  which  Nature's  mighty  heart 
Drives  through  thinnest  veins.     Depart ! 

What  is  heaven  1   a  globe  of  dew. 

Filling  in  the  morning  new 

Some   eyed   flower,  whose  young  leaves 
waken 

On  an  unimagined  world  : 
Constellated  suns  unshaken, 

Orbits  measureless,  are  furled 
In  that  frail  and  fading  sphere. 
With  ten  millions  gathered  there, 
To  tremble,  gleam,  and  disappear. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


275 


ODE  TO  THE  WEST  WIND. 


0  WILD  West  Wind,  thou  breath  of  Autumn's 

being, 
Thou,  from  whose  unseen  presence  the  leaves  dead 
Are  driven,  liiie  ghosts  from  an  enchanter  fleeing. 

Yellow,  and  black,  and  pale,  and  hectic  red, 
Pestilence-stricken  nmltitudes :  O  thou, 
Who  chariotest  to  their  dark  wintry  bed 

The  winged  seeds,  where  the}-  lie  cold  and  low. 
Each  like  a  corpse  within  its  grave,  until 
Thine  azure  sister  of  the  spring  shall  blow 

Her  clarion  o'er  the  dreaming  earth,  and  fill 
(Driving  sweet  buds  like  flocks  to  feed  in  air) 
With  Uving  hues  and  odours  plain  and  hill : 

Wild  Spirit,  which  art  moving  every  where ; 
Destroyer  and  preserver ;  hear,  oh  hear ! 

Thou  on  whose  stream,  'mid  the  steep  sky's  com- 
motion, 
Loose  clouds  like  earth's  decaying  leaves  are  shed. 
Shook  from  the  tangled    boughs  of  Heaven  and 
Ocean, 

Angels  of  rain  and  lightning :  there  are  spread 
On  the  blue  surface  of  thine  airy  surge, 
Like  the  bright  hair  uplifted  from  the  head 

Of  some  fierce  Msenad,  even  from  the  dim  verge 

Of  the  horizon  to  the  zenith's  height. 

The  locks  of  the  approaching  storm.     Thou  dirge 

Of  the  dying  year,  to  which  this  closing  night 
Will  be  the  doom  of  a  vast  sepulchre, 
Vaulted  with  all  thy  congregated  might 

Of  vapours  from  whose  solid  atmosphere 

Black  rain,  and  fire,  and  hail,  will  burst :  Oh  hear  ! 

III. 
Thou  who  didst  waken  from  his  summer  dreams 
The  blue  Mediterranean,  where  he  lay, 
Lulled  by  the  coil  of  his  crystalline  streams, 

Beside  a  pumice  isle  in  Baise's  bay. 
And  saw  in  sleep  old  palaces  and  towers 
Quivering  within  the  wave's  intenscr  day, 

*  This  poem  was  conceived  and  chiefly  written  in  a 
wood  that  skirts  the  Arno,  near  Florence,  and  on  a  day 
when  thnt  terapestuoiVs  wind,  whose  temperature  is  at 
once  mild  and  animatinz,  was  collecting  the  vapours 
which  pour  down  the  autumnal  rains.  They  hezan,  as 
I  foresaw,  at  sunset,  with  a  violent  tempest  of  hail  and 
rain,  attended  by  that  magnificent  thunder  and  lightning 
peculiar  to  the  Cisalpine  regions. 

The  phenomenon  alluded  to  at  the  conclusion  of  the 
third  stanza  is  well  known  to  naturalists.  Theveseta- 
tiou  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  of  rivers,  and  of  lakes, 
sympathizes  with  that  of  the  land  in  the  change  of  sea- 
sons, and  is  consequently  influenced  by  the  winds  which 
announce  it. 


All  overgrown  with  azure  moss  and  flowers 

So  sweet,  the  sense  faints  picturing  them !     Thou 

For  whose  path  the  Atlantic's  level  powers 

Cleave  themselves  into  chasms,  while  far  below 
The  sea-blooms  and  the  oozy  woods  which  wear 
The  sapless  foliage  of  the  ocean,  know 

Thy  voice  and  .suddenly  grow  gray  with  fear, 
And  tremble  and  despoil  themselves :  Oh  hear  ! 


If  I  were  a  dead  loaf  thou  mightcst  bear ; 

If  I  were  a  swift  cloud  to  fly  with  thee ; 

A  wave  to  pant  beneath  thy  power,  and  share 

The  impulse  of  thy  strength,  only  less  free 
Than  thou,  O  uncontrollable  !    If  even 
I  were  as  in  my  boyhood,  and  could  be 

The  comrade  of  thy  wandeiings  over  heaven, 
As  then,  when  to  outstrip  the  skyey  speed 
Scarce  seemed  a  vision,  I  would  ne'er  have  striven 

As  thus  with  thee  in  prayer  in  my  sore  need. 
Oh  !  lift  me  as  a  wave,  a  leaf,  a  cloud  ! 
I  fall  upon  the  thorns  of  life  !  -I  bleed  ! 

A  heavy  weight  of  hours  has  chained  and  bowed 
One  too  like  thee :  tameless,  and  swift,  and  proud. 


Make  me  thy  lyre,  even  as  the  forest  is : 
What  if  my  leaves  are  falling  like  its  own  ! 
The  tumult  of  thy  mighty  harmonies 

Will  take  from  both  a  deep  autumnal  tone, 
Sweet  though  in  sadness.     Be  thou,  spirit  fierce, 
My  spirit !     Be  thou  me,  impetuous  one ! 

Drive  iTiy  dead  thoughts  over  the  universe 
Like  withered  leaves  to  quicken  a  new  birth ; 
And,  by  the  incantation  of  this  verse,' 

Scatter,  as  fi-om  an  unextinguished  hearth 
Ashes  and  sparks,  my  words  among  mankind ! 
Be  through  my  lips  to  unawakened  earth 

The  trumpet  of  a  prophecy  !     0  wind. 

If  Winter  comes,  can  spring  be  far  behind  ? 


AN  EXHORTATION. 


Chamelf-oxs  feed  on  light  and  air: 
Poet's  food  is  love  and  fame : 

If  in  this  wide  world  of  care 
Poets  could  but  find  the  same 

With  as  little  toil  as  they. 

Would  they  ever  change  their  hue 
As  the  liglit  chameleons  do, 

Suiting  it  to  every  ray 

Twenty  times  a-day  ? 


'^70 


POEMS    WRITTEN    IN    1819. 


Poets  are  on  this  cold  earth,. 

As  chameleons  might  be, 
Hidden  from  their  early  birth 

In  a  cave  beneath  the  sea ; 
Where  light  is,  chameleons  change ! 

Where  love  is  not,  poets  do: 

Fame  is  love  disguised  :  if  few 
Find  either,  never  think  it  strange 
That  poets  range. 

Yet  dare  not  stain  with  wealth  or  power 

A  poet's  free  and  heavenly  mind : 
If  bright  chameleons  should  devour 

Any  food  but  beams  and  wind, 
They  would  grow  as  earthly  soon 

As  their  brother  lizards  are. 

Children  of  a  sunnier  star, 
Spirits  from  beyond  the  moon, 
Oh,  refuse  the  boon ! 


TO  WILLIAM  SHELLEY. 


(With  what  truth  I  may  say 

Roma  ;  Roma  !  Roma ! 
Non  e  piu  come  era  prima:) 


Mr  lost  William,  thou  in  whom 

Some  bright  spirit  lived,  and  did 
That  decaying  robe  consume 

Which  its  lustre  faintly  hid, 
Here  its  ashes  find  a  tomb. 

But  beneath  this  pyramid 
Thou  art  not — if  a  thing  di\ine 
Like  thee  can  die,  thy  funeral  shrine 
Is  thy  mother's  grief  and  mine. 

Where  art  thou,  my  gentle  child  ? 

Let  me  think  thy  spirit  feeds, 
Within  its  life  intense  and  mild. 

The  love  of  living  leaves  and  weeds. 
Among  these  tombs  and  ruins  wild  ; — 

Let  me  think  that  through  low  seeds 
Of  the  sweet  flowers  and  sunny  grass, 
Itito  their  hues  and  scents  may  pass, 
A  portion • 

Jane,  1819. 


ON 
THE  MEDUSA  OF  LEONARDO  DA  VINCI, 

IN  THE  FLORENTINE  GALLERY. 

It  lieth,  gazing  on  the  midnight  sky. 

Upon  the  cloudy  mountain  peak  supine ; 
Below,  far  lands  are  seen  tremblingly ; 

Its  horror  and  its  beauty  are  divine. 
Upon  its  lips  and  eyelids  seems  to  lie 

Lovehness  like  a  shadow,  from  which  shrine. 
Fiery  and  lurid,  struggling  underneath. 

The  agonies  of  anguish  and  of  death. 

Yet  it  is  less  the  horror  than  the  grace 
Which  turns  the  gazer's  spirit  into  stone ; 

Whereon  the  lineaments  of  that  dead  face 
Are  graven,  till  the  characters  be  grown 

Into  itself,  and  thought  no  more  can  trace ; 
'Tis  the  melodious  hue  of  beauty  thrown 

Athwart  the  darkness  and  the  glare  of  pain, 

Which  humanize  and  harmonize  the  strain. 

And  from  its  head  as  from  one  body  grew, 
As  [  ]  grass  out  of  a  watery  rock. 

Hairs  which  are  vipers,  and  they  curl  and  flow. 
And  their  long  tangles  in  each  other  lock, 

And  with  unending  involutions  show 

Their  mailed  radiance,  as  it  were  to  mock 

The  torture  and  the  death  within,  and  saw 

The  solid  air  with  many  a  ragged  jaw. 

And  from  a  stone  beside,  a  poisonous  eft 
Peeps  idly  into  these  Gorgonian  eyes ; 

Whilst  in  the  air  a  ghastly  bat,  bereft 
Of  sense,  has  flitted  with  a  mad  surprise 

Out  of  the  cave  this  hideous  light  hath  cleft. 
And  he  comes  hastening  like  a  moth  that  hies 

After  a  taper ;  and  the  midnight  sky 

Flares,  a  light  more  dread  than  obscurity. 

'Tis  the  tempestuous  loveliness  of  terror ; 

For  from  the  serpents  gleams  a  brazen  glare 
Kindled  by  that  inextricable  error, 

Which  makes  a  thrilling  vapour  of  the  air 
Become  a  [  ]  and  ever-.shifting  mirror 

Of  all  the  beauty  and  the  terror  there — 
A  woman's  countenance,  with  serpent  locks. 
Gazing  in  death  on  heaven  from  those  wet  rocks. 

Florence,  1819. 


EDITOR'S    NOTE    ON    POEMS    OF     18  19. 


277 


NOTE  ON   THE  POEMS   OF   1819. 


BY  THE  EDITOR. 


Though  Shelley's  first  eager  desire  to  excite 
his  countrymen  to  resist  openly  the  oppressions 
existent  during  « the  good  old  times"  had  faded 
with  early  youth,  still  his  warmest  sympathies 
were  for  the  people.  He  was  a  republican,  and 
loved  a  democracy.  He  looked  on  all  human  be- 
ings as  inheriting  an  equal  right  to  possess  the 
dearest  privileges  of  our  nature,  the  necessaries  of 
life,  when  fairly  earned  by  labour,  and  intellectual 
instruction.  His  hatred  of  any  despotism,  that 
looked  upon  the  people  as  not  to  be  consulted  or 
protected  from  want  and  ignorance,  was  intense. 
He  was  residing  near  Leghorn,  at  Villa  Valsovano, 
writing  The  Cenci,  when  the  news  of  the  Man- 
chester Massacre  reached  us ;  it  roused  in  him 
violent  emotions  of  indignation  and  compassion. 
The  great  truth  that  the  many,  if  accordant  and 
resolute,  could  control  the  few,  as  was  shown 
some  years  after,  made  him  long  to  teach  his  in- 
jured countrymen  how  to  resist.  Inspired  by  these 
feelings,  he  wrote  the  Masque  of  Anarchy,  which 
he  sent  to  his  friend,  Leigh  Hunt,  to  be  inserted  in 
the  Examiner,  of  which  he  was  then  the  E(htor. 

« I  did  not  insert  it,"  Leigh  Hunt  writes  in  his 
valuable  and  interesting  preface  to  this  poem,  when 
he  printed  it  in  1832,  "because  I  thought  that  the 
public  at  large  had  not  become  sufficiently  discern- 
ing to  do  justice  to  the  sincerity  and  kind-hearted- 
ness of  his  spirit,  that  walked  in  this  flaming  robe 
of  verse."  Days  of  outrage  have  passed  away, 
and  with  them  the  exasperation  that  would  cause 
such  an  appeal  to  the  many  to  be  injurious.  With- 
out being  aware  of  them,  they  ai  one  time  acted 
on  his  suggestions,  and  gained  the  day ;  but  they 
rose  when  human  life  was  respected  by  the  minis- 
ter in  power ;  such  was  not  the  case  during  the 
administration  which  excited  Shelley's  abhorrence. 

The  poem  w£fs  written  for  the  people,  and  is 
therefore  in  a  more  popular  tone  than  usual ;  por- 
tions strike  as  abrupt  and  unpolished,  but  many 
stanzas  are  all  his  own.  I  heard  him  repeat,  and 
admired  those  beginning, — 

My  Father  Time  is  old  and  gray, 

before  I  knew  to  what  poem  they  were  to  belong. 
But  the  most  touching  passage  is  that  which  de- 
scribes the  blessed  effects  of  liberty ;  they  might 


make  a  patriot  of  any  man,  whose  heart  was  not 
wholly  closed  against  his  humbler  fellow-creatures. 

Shelley  loved  the  people,  and  respected  them  as 
often  more  virtuous,  as  always  more  suffering,  and, 
therefore,  more  deserving  of  sympathy,  than  the 
great.  He  believed  that  a  clash  between  the  two 
classes  of  society  was  inevitable,  and  he  eagerly 
ranged  himself  on  the  people's  side.  He  had  an 
idea  of  publishing  a  series  of  poems  adapted  ex- 
pressly to  commemorate  their  circumstances  and 
wrongs — he  wrote  a  few,  but  in  those  days  of 
prosecution  for  libel  they  could  not  be  printed. 
They  are  not  among  the  best  of  his  productions,  a 
writer  being  always  shackled  when  he  endeavours 
to  write  down  to  the  comprehension  of  those  who 
could  not  understand  or  feel  a  highly  imaginative 
style  ;  but  they  show  his  earnestness,  and  with 
what  heartfelt  compassion  he  went  home  to  the 
direct  point  of  injury — that  oppression  is  detest- 
able, as  being  the_  parent  of  starvation,  nakedness, 
and  ignorance.  Besides  these  outpourings  of  com- 
passion and  indignation,  he 'had  meant  to  adorn 
the  cause  he  loved  with  loftier  poetry  of  glory  and 
triumph — ^such  is  the  scope  of  the  Ode  to  the 
Assertors  of  Liberty.  He  sketched  also  a  new 
version  of  our  national  anthem,  as  addressed  to 
Liberty. 

God  prosper,  speed,  and  save, 
God  raise  from  England's  grave 

Her  murdered  Queen  ! 
Pave  with  swift  victory 
Tlie  steps  of  Liberty, 
Whom  Britons  own  to  be 

Immortal  Queen ! 

See,  she  comes  throned  on  high. 
On  swift  Eternity: 

God  save  the  Queen  ! 
Millions  on  millions  wait 
Firm,  rapid,  and  elate, 
On  her  majestic  state  ! 

God  save  the  Queen ! 

She  is  thine  own  pure  soul 
Moulding  the  mighty  whole, 

God  save  the  Queen! 
She  is  thine  own  deep  love 
Rained  down  from  heaven  above, 
AVliorcver  she  rest  or  move, 

God  save  our  Queen! 

Wilder  her  enemies 

In  their  own  dark  disguise, 

God  save  our  Queen! 
2  A 


378 


EDITOR'S    NOTE    ON    POEMS    OF    1819. 


All  earthly  things  that  dare 
Her  sacred  name  to  bear, 
Strip  them,  as  kings  arc,  bare  ; 

God  save  Uie  Queen! 

Be  her  eternal  throne 
Built  in  our  hearts  alone, 

God  save  the  Queen  ! 
Let  the  oppressor  hold 
Canopied  seats  of  pold^ 
She  sits  enthroned  of  old 

O'er  our  hearts  Queen ! 

Lips  touched  by  seraphim 
Breathe  out  the  choral  hymn 

God  save  the  Queen! 
Sweet  as  if  angels  sang. 
Loud  as  that  trumpet's  clang, 
Wakening  the  world's  dead  gang, 

God  save  the  Queen  ! 

Shelley  had  suffered  severely  from  the  death  of 
our  son  during  this  summer.  His  heart,  attuned 
to  every  kindly  affection,  was  full  of  burning  love 
for  his  offspring.  No  words  can  express  the 
anguish  he  felt  when  his  elder  children  were  torn 
from  him.  In  his  first  resentment  against  the 
Chancellor,  on  the  passing  of  the  decree,  he  had 
written  a  curse,  in  which  there  breathes,  besides 
haughty  indignation,  all  the  tenderness  of  a  father's 
love,  which  could  imagine  and  fondly  dwell  upon 
its  loss  and  the  consequences.     It  is  as  follows : 


.\ 


TO  THE  LORD  CHANCELLOR. 


Thy  country's  curse  is>3n  thee,  darkest  Crest, 
Of  that  foul,  kaattod,  many-headed  worm, 

Which  rends  our  Mother's  bosom — Priestly  Pest ! 
Masked  Resurrection  of  a  buried  form  :* 

Thy  country's  curse  is  on  thee  !  Justice  sold. 
Truth  trampled,  Nature's  landmarks  overthrown, 

And  heaps  of  fraud-accumulated  gold, 
Plead,  loud  as  thunder,  at  Destruction's  throne. 

And  whilst  that  slow  sure  Angel,  which  aye  stands. 

Watching  the  beck  of  Mutability, 
Delays  to  execute  her  high  commands, 

And,  though  a  nation  weeps,  spares  thine  and  thee  ; 

0  let  a  father's  curse  be  on  thy  soul, 

And  let  a  daughter's  hope  be  on  thy  tomb, 
And  both  on  thy  gray  head,  a  leaden  cowl. 
To  weigh  thee  down  to  thine  approaching  doom  ! 

1  curse  thee  by  a  parent's  outraged  love. 

By  hopes  long  cherished  and  too  lately  lost, 
By  gentle  feelings  thou  couldst  never  prove. 
By  griefs  which  thy  stern  nature  never  crost : 

By  those  infantine  smiles  of  happy  light. 

Which  were  a  fire  within  a  stranger's  hearth. 

Quenched  even  when  kindled,  in  untimely  night. 
Hiding  the  promise  of  a  lovely  birth  : 

By  these  unpractised  ascents  of  young  speech, 
Which  he  who  is  a  father  thouglit  to  frame, 

To  gentlest  lore,  such  as  the  wisest  teach  ; 

Thou  strike  the  lyre  of  mind  1  O  grief  and  shame  ! 

♦  The  Star  Chamber. 


By  all  tlie  happy  see  in  children's  growth, 
That  undeveloped  flower  of  budding  years, 

Sweetness  and  sadness  interwoven  both. 
Source  of  the  sweetest  hopes  and  saddest  fears  : 

By  all  the  days  under  a  hireling's  care 
Of  dull  constraint  and  bitter  heaviness, — 

0  wretch  ye,  if  ever  any  were. 

Sadder  tlian  orphaus,  yet  not  fatherless  ! 

By  the  false  cant,  which  on  their  innocent  lips. 
Must  hang  like  poison  on  an  opening  bloom, 

By  the  dark  creeds  which  cover  with  eclipse 
Tlieir  pathway  from  the  cradle  to  the  tomb ; 

By  thy  most  impious  Hell,  and  all  its  terrors. 
By  all  the  grief,  the  madness,  and  the  guilt 

Of  thine  impostures,  which  must  be  their  errors, 
Tliat  sand  on  which  thy  crumbling  Power  is  built 

By  thy  complicity  with  lust  and  hate. 
Thy  thirst  for  tears,  thy  hunger  after  gold. 

The  ready  frauds  which  ever  on  thee  wait. 
The  servile  arts  in  which  thou  hast  grown  old ; 

By  thy  most  killing  sneer,  and  by  thy  smile. 
By  all  the  acts  and  snares  of  thy  black  den. 

And— for  thou  canst  outweep  the  crocodile, — 
By  thy  false  tears — those  millstones  braining  men ; 

By  all  the  hate  which  checks  a  father's  love. 
By  all  the  scorn  which  kills  a  father's  care. 

By  those  most  impious  hands  that  dared  remove 
Nature's  high  bounds — by  thee — and  by  despair  I 

Yes,  the  despair  which  bids  a  father  groan, 
Afld  cry,  my  children  are  no  longer  mine ; 

The  blood  within  those  veins  may  be  mine  own, 
But,  Tyrant,  their  polluted  souls  are  thine. 

1  curse  thee,  though  I  hate  thee  not ;  O  slave  : 

If  thou  couldst  quench  the  earth-consuming  hell 
Of  which  thou  art  a  demon,  on  thy  grave 
This  curse  should  be  a  blessing.    F^rc)  ilte«.  >K£lL! 

At  one  time,  while  the  question  was  still  pend- 
ing, the  Chancellor  had  said  some  words  that 
seemed  to  intimate  that  Shelley  should  not  be  per- 
mitted the  care  of  any  of  his  children,  and  for  a 
moment  he  feared  that  our  infant  son  would  be 
torn  from  us.  He  did  not  hesitate  to  resolve,  if 
such  were  menaced,  to  abandon  country,  fortune, 
every  thing,  and  to  escape  with  his  child  ;  and  I 
find  some  unfmishcd  stanzas  addressed  to  this  son, 
whom  afterwards  wc  lost  at  Rome,  written  under 
the  idea  that  we  might  suddenly  be  forced  to  cross 
the  sea,,  so  to  preserve  him.  This  poem,  as  well  as 
the  one  previously  quoted,  were  not  written  to  ex- 
hibit the  pangs  of  distress  to  the  public :  they  were 
the  spontaneous  outbursts  of  a  man'  who  brooded 
over  his  wrongs  and  woes,  and  was  impelled  to 
shed  the  grace  of  his  genius  over  the  uncontrol- 
lable emotions  of  his  heart  : 

The  billows  on  the  beach  are  leaping  around  it. 

The  bark  is  %veak  and  frail, 
The  sea  looks  black,  and  the  clouds  that  bound  it 

Darkly  strew  the  ""ale. 


',  :\ 


EDITOR'S  NOTE  ON  POEMS  OF  18  19. 


279 


Come  with  me,  thou  delightful  child. 
Come  with  me^thougli  the  wave  is  wild, 
And  the  winds  are  loose,  we  [yist  not  sta^ 
Or  the  slaves  of  law  may  rend  thee  away. 

They  have  taken  thy  hrother  and  sister  dear, 

They  have  made  them  unfit  for  thee  ; 
They  have  withered  the  smile  and  dried  the  tear, 

Which  should  have  hcen  sacml  to  nie. 
To  a  blighting  fiiith  and  a  cause  of  crime 
They  have  bound  them  slaves  in  youthly  time, 
And  they  will  cijistt  my  name  and  thee, 
Because  we  fearless  are  and  free. 

Come  thou,  beloved  as  thou  art. 

Another  sleepeth  still,' 
Near  thy  sweet  mother's  anxious  heart. 

Which  thou  with  joy  wilt  fill ; 
With  fairest  smiles  of  w-ojuW  thrown 
On  that  which  is  indeed  our  own. 
And  which  in  distant  lands  will  bo 
The  dearest  playmate  unto  thee. 

Fear  not  the  tyrants  will  rule  for  ever,        ^ 

Or  the  priests  of  the  evil  faith  ; 
They  stand  on  the  brink  of  that  raging  river. 

Whose  waves  they  have  tainted  with  death. 
It  is  fed  from  the  depth  of  a  thousand  dells. 
Around  them  it  foams  and  rages  and  swells  ; 
And  their  swords  and  their  sceptres  I  floating  see, 
Like  wrecks  on  the  surge  of  eternity. 

Rest,  rest,  shriek  not,  thou  gentle  child! 

The  rocking  of  the  boat  thou  fearest. 
And  the  cold  spray  and  the  clamour  wild  ? 

There  sit  between  us  two,  thou  dearest ; 
Me  and  thy  mother— well  we  know 
The  storm  at  which  thou  tremblest  so. 
With  all  its  dark  and  hungry  graves. 
Less  cruel  than  the  savage  slaves 
Who  hunt  thee  o'er  these  sheltering  wave3. 

This  hour  will  in  thy  memory 

Be  a  dream  of  days  forgotten  ; 
We  soon  shall  dwell  by  the  azure  sea 

Of  serine  and  golden  Italy, 

Or  Greece,  the  iMotherjof  the  free. 
And  I  will  teach  tliine  infant  tongue 
To  call  upon  their  heroes  old 
In  their  own  language,  and  will  mould 
Thy  growing  spirit  in  the  flame 
Of  Grecian  lore  ;  that  by  such  name 
A  patriot's  birthright  thou  mayst  claim. 

I  ought  to  ob.serve  that  the  fourth  verse  of  this 
effusion  is  introduced  in  Rosalind  and  Helen. 

When  afterwards  this  child  died  at  Rome,  he 
wrote,  apropos  of  the  English  burj'ing-ground  in 
that  city,  "This  spot  is  the  repository  of  a  sacred 
loss,  of  which  the  yearnings  of  a  parent's  heart 
are  now  prophetic;  he  is  rendered  immortal  by 
love,  as  his  memory  is  by  death.  My  beloved 
child  Ues  buried  here.     I  envy  death  the  body  far 


less  than  the  oppressors  the  minds  of  those  whom 
they  have  torn  from  me.  The  oue  can  only  kill 
the  body,  the  other  crushes  the  aflcctions." 

In  this  new  edition  I  have  added  to  the  poems 
of  this  year,  "  Peter  Bell  the  Third."  A  critique 
on  Wordsworth's  Peter  Bell  reached  us  at  Leghorn, 
which  amused  Shelley  exceedingly  and  suggested 
this  poem. 

I  need  scarcely  observe  that  nothing  personal 
to  the  Author  of  Peter  Bell  is  intended  in  this 
poem.  No  man  ever  admired  Wordsworth's 
poetry  more  ; — he  read  it  perpetually,  and  taught 
others  to  appreciate  its  beauties.  This  poem  i.s, 
like  all  others  written  by  Shelley,  ideal.  He  con- 
ceived the  idealism  of  a  poet — a  man  of  lofty  and 
creative  genius, — quitting  the  glorious  calling  of 
discovering  and  announcing  the  beautiful  and 
good,  to  support  and  propagate  ignorant  prejudices 
and  pernicious  errors;  imparting  to  the  unen- 
lightened, not  that  ardoiu-  for  truth  and  spirit  of 
toleration  which  Shelley  looked  on  as  the  sources 
of  the  moral  improvement  and  happiness  of  man- 
kind; but  false  and  injurious  opinions,  that  evil 
was  good,  and  that  ignorance  and  force  were  the 
best  allies  of  purity  and  virtue.  His  idea  was 
that  a  man  gifted  even  as  transcendantly  as  the 
Author  of  Peter  Bell,  with  the  highest  quahties 
of  genius,  must,  if  he  fostered  such  errors,  be 
infected  with  dulness.  This  poem  was  written, 
as  a  warning — not  as  a  narration  of  the  reality. 
He  was  unacquainted  personally  with  Words- 
worth or  with  Coleridge,  (to  whom  he  alludes  in 
the  fifth  part  of  the  poem,)  and  therefore,  I  repeat, 
his  poem  is  purely  ideal ; — it  contains  something 
of  criticism  on  the  compositions  of  these  great 
poets,  but  nothing  injurious  to  the  men  them- 
selves. 

No  poem  contains  more  of  Shelley's  peculiar 
views,  with  regard  to  the  errors  into  which  many 
of  the  wisest  have  fallen,  and  of  the  pernicious 
eflects  of  certain  opinions  on  society.  Much  of  it 
is  beautifully  written — and  though,  like  the  bur- 
lesque drama  of  Swellfoot,  it  must  be  looked  on  as 
a  plaything,  it  has  so  much  merit  and  poetry — so 
much  oi  himself  m  it,  that  it  cannot  fail  to  interest 
greatly,  and  by  right  belongs  to  the  world  for 
whose  instruction  and  benefit  it  was  written. 


POEMS  WRITTEN   IN  MDCCCXX. 


THE    SENSITIVE    PLANT. 


A  se:«^sitive  Plant  in  a  garden  grew, 
And  the  young  winds  fed  it  with  silver  dew, 
And  it  opened  its  fanUkc  leaves  to  the  light, 
And  closed  them  beneath  the  kisses  of  night. 

And  the  Spring  arose  on  the  garden  fair, 
And  the  Spirit  of  Love  fell  every  where ; 
And  each  flower  and  herb  on  Earth's  dark  breast 
Rose  from  the  dreams  of  its  wintry  rest. 

But  none  ever  trembled  and  panted  with  bliss 
In  the  garden,  the  field,  or  the  wilderness, 
Like  a  doe  in  the  noontide  with  love's  sweet  want. 
As  the  companionless  Sensitive  Plant. 

The  snowdrop,  and  then  the  violet. 
Arose  from  the  ground  with  warm  rain  wet, 
And  their  breath  was  mixed  with  fresh  odour,  sent 
From  the  turf,  like  the  voice  and  the  instrument. 

Then  the  pied  windflowers  and  the  tulip  tall, 
And  narcissi,  the  fairest  among  them  all. 
Who  gaze  on  their  eyes  in  the  stream's  recess, 
Till  they  die  of  their  own  dear  loveliness. 

And  the  Naiad-like  lily  of  the  vale, 
Whom  youth  makes  so  fair  and  passion  so  pale, 
That  the  light  of  its  tremulous  bells  is  seen 
Through  their  pavilions  of  tender  green ; 

And  the  hyacinth  purple,  and  white,  and  blue. 
Which  flung  from  its  bells  a  sweet  peal  anew 
Of  music  so  delicate,  soft,  and  intense. 
It  was  felt  like  an  odour  within  the  sense ; 

And  the  rose  like  a  nymph  to  the  bath  addrest. 
Which  unveiled  the  depth  of  her  glowing  breast, 
Till,  fold  after  fold,  to  the  fainting  air 
The  soul  of  her  beauty  and  love  lay  bare ; 

And- the  wandlike  lily,  which  lifted  up. 

As  a  Mfcnad,  its  moonlight-coloured  cup, 

Till  the  fiery  star,  which  is  its  eye. 

Gazed  through  the  clear  dew  on  the  tender  sky; 

And  the  jessamine  faint,  and  the  sweet  tuberose, 
The  sweetest  flower  for  scent  that  blows ; 
And  allrarc  blossoms  from  every  clime 
Grew  in  that  garden  in  perfect  prime. 

And  on  the  stream  whose  inconstant  bosom 
Was  prankt,  under  boughs  of  embowering  blossom, 
With  golden  and  green  light,  slanting  through 
Their  heaven  of  many  a  tangled  hue, 

2sn 


Broad  water-lilies  lay  tremulously. 

And  starry  river-buds  glimmered  by. 

And  iround  them  the  soft  stream  did  gUde  and  dance 

With  a  motion  of  sweet  sound  and  radiance.  ^ 

And  the  sinuous  paths  of  lawn  and  of  moss, 
Wiiich  led  through  the  garden  along  and  across. 
Some  open  at  once  to  the  sun  and  the  breeze, 
Some  lost  among  bowers  of  blossoming  trees. 

Were  all  paved  with  daisies  and  delicate  bells, 
As  fair  as  the  fabulous  asphodels. 
And  flowrets  which  drooping  as  day  drooped  too. 
Fell  into  pavilions,  white,  purple,  and  blue. 
To  roof  the  glowworm  from  the  evening  dew. 

And  from  this  undefiled  Paradise 
The  flowers  (as  an  infant's  awakeniug  eyes 
Smile  on  its  mother,  whose  singing  sweet 
Can  first  lull,  and  at  last  must  awaken  it,) 

When  Heaven's  blithe  winds  had  unfolded  them, 
As  mine-lamps  enkindle^  hidden  gem. 
Shone  smiling  to  Heaven,  and  every  one 
Shared  joy  in  the  light  of  the  gentle  sun  ; 

For  each  one  was  interpenetrated 
With  the  light  and  the  odour  its  neighbour  shed. 
Like  young  lovers  whom  youth  and  love  make  dear, 
Wrapped  and  filled  by  their  mutual  atmosphere. 

But  the  Sensitive  Plant,  which  could  give  small  fruit 
Of  the  love  which  it  felt  from  the  leaf  to  the  root. 
Received  more  than  all,  it  loved  more  than  ever, 
Where  none  wanted  but  it,  could  belong  to  the 
giver— 

For  the  Sensitive  Plant  has  no  bright  flower; 
Radiance  and  odour  are  not  its  dower; 
It  loves,  even  hke  Love,  its  deep  heart  is  full, 
It  desires  what  it  has  not,'  the  beautiful ! 

The  light  winds,- which  from  unsustaining  wings 
Shed  the  music  of  many  murmuriugs ; 
The  beams  which  dart  from  many  a  star 
Of  the  flowers  whose  hues  they  bear  afar ; 

The  plumed  insects  swift  and  free. 
Like  golden  boats  on  a  sunny  sea. 
Laden  with  light  and  odour,  which  pass 
Over  the  gleam  of  the  living  grass ; 

The  unseen  clouds  of  the  dew,  which  lie 
Like  fire  in  the  flowers  till  the  sun  rides  high, 
Then  wander  like  spirits  among  the  spheres. 
Each  cloud  faint  with  the  fragrance  it  bears; 


THE    SENSITIVE    PLANT. 


281 


The  quivering  vapours  of  dim  noontide, 
Which,  Hkc  a  sea  o'er  the  warm  earth  ghde, 
la  which  every  sound,  and  odour,  and  beam, 
Move,  as  rccde  in  a  single  stream ; 

Eath  and  all  like  ministering  angels  were 
For  the  Sensitive  Plant  sweet  joy  to  hear, 
Whilst  the  higging  hours  of  the  day  went  by 
Like  vindlcss  clouds  o'er  a  tender  sky. 

And  wsen  evening  descended  from  heaven  above, 
And  tlieEarth  was  ail  rest,  and  tlie  air  was  all  love. 
And  delight,  thougli  less  bright,  was  fiir  more  deep. 
And  the  day's  veil  fell  from  the  world  of  sleep.-. 

And  the  bee^sts,  and  the  birds,  and  the  insects  were 
In  an  ocean  of  dreams  without  a  sound ;  [drowned 
Whose  waves  never  mark,  though  they  ever  impress 
The  light  sand  which  paves  it,  consciousness ; 

(Only  overhead  the  sweet  nightingale 

Ever  sang  more  sweet  as  the  day  might  fail. 

And  snatches  of  its  Elysian  chant 

Were  mixed  with  the  dreams  of  the  Sensitive  Plant.) 

The  Sensitive  Plant  was  the  earliest 
Up-gathered  into  the  bosom  of  rest ; 
A  sweet  child  weary  of  its  delight. 
The  feeblest  and  yet  the  favourite. 
Cradled  within. the  embrace  of  night. 


PART  II. 


Tht-rf.  was  a  Power  in  this  sweet  place, 
An  Eve  in  this  Eden ;  a  ruhng  grace 
Which  to  the  flowers,  did  thoy  waken  or  dream, 
Was  as  God  is  to  the  starry  scheme.' 

A  Lady,  the  wonder  of  her  kind. 
Whose  form  was  upborne  by  a  lovely  mind. 
Which,  dilating,  had  moulded  her  mien  and  motion 
Like  a  sea-flower  unfolded  beneath  the  ocean, 

Tended  the  garden  from  morn  to  even  : 
And  the  meteors  of  that  sublunar  heaven, 
Like  the  lamps  of  the  air  when  night  walks  forth. 
Laughed  round  her  footsteps  up  from  the  Earth ! 

She  had  no  companion  of  mortal  race. 
But  her  tremulous  breath  and  her  flushing  face  ' 
Told  whilst  the  morn  kissed  the  sleep  from  her  eyes. 
That  her  dreams  were  less  slumber  than  Paradise : 

As  if  some  bright  spirit  for  her  sweet  sake 

Had  deserted  heaven  while  the  stars  were  awake, 

As  if  yet  around  her  he  lingering  were. 

Though  the  veil  of  day  light  concealed  him  from  her. 

Her  step  seemed  to  pity  the  grass  it  prcst : 
You  might  hear,  by  the  heaving  of  her  breast, 
That  the  coming  and  the  going  of  the  wind 
Brought  pleasure  there  and  left  passion  behind. 
36 


And  wherever  her  airy  footstep  trod, 
Her  trailing  hair  from  the  gra.'i.sy  sod 
Erased  its  light  vestige,  with  shadowy  sweep, 
Like  a  sunny  storm  o'er  the  dark  green  deep. 

I  doubt  not  the  flowers  of  that  garden  sweet 
Rejoiced  in  the  sound  of  her  gentle  feet ; 
I  doubt  not  they  felt  the  spirit  that  came 
From  her  glowing  fingers  through  all  their  frame. 

She  sprinkled  bright  water  from  the  stream 
On  those  that  were  faint  with  the  sunny  beam ; 
And  out  of  the  cups  of  the  heavy  flowers 
She  emptied  the  rain  of  the  thunder  showers. 

She  lifted  their  heads  with  her  tender  hands, 
And  sustained  them  with  rods  and  osier  bands ; 
If  the  flowers  had  been  her  own  infants,  she 
Could  never  have  nursed  them  more  tenderly. 

And  all  killing  inisects  and  gnawing  worms, 
And  things  of  obscene  and  unlovely  forms, 
She  bore  in  a  basket  of  Indian  woof. 
Into  the  rough  woods  far  aloof. 

In  a  basket,  of  grasses  and  wild  flowers  full, 
The  freshest  her  gentle  hands  could  pull 
For  the  poor  banished  insects,  whose  intent, 
Although  they  did  ill,  was  innocent. 

But  the  bee  and  the  beamlike  ephemeris,  [kiss 
Whose  path  is  the  lightning's,  and  soft  moths  that 
The  sweet  hps  of  the  flowers,  and  harm  not,  did  she 
Make  her  attendant  angels  be. 

And  many  an  antenatal  tomb. 
Where  butterflies  dream  of  the  life  to  come, 
She  left  cUnging  round  the  smooth  and  dark 
Edge  of  the  odorous  cedar  bark. 

This  fairest  creature  from  earliest  spring 
Thus  moved  through  the  garden  ministering 
All  the  sweet  season  of  summer  tide, 
And  ere  the  first  leaf  looked  brown — she  died ! 


PART  III. 


Three  days  the  flowers  of  the  garden  fair. 
Like  stars  when  the  noon  is  awakened,  were, 
Or  the  waves  of  the  Baiae,  ere  luminous 
She  floats  up  through  the  smoke  of  Vesuvius. 

And  on  the  fourth,  the  Sensitive  Plant 
Felt  the  sound  of  the  funeral  chaunt, 
And  the  steps  of  the  bearers,  heavy  and  slow, 
And  the  sobs  of  the  mourners,  deep  and  low  ; 

The  weary  sound  aod  the  heavy  breath. 
And  the  silent  motions  of  passing  death, 
And  Uie  smell,  cold,  oppressive,  and  dank, 
Sent  through  the  pores  of  the  cofiin  plank ; 

The  dark  grass,  and  the  flowers  among  the  grass, 
Were  bright  with  tears  as  the  crowd  did  pass ; 
From  their  sighs  the  wind  caught  a  mournful  tone, 
And  sate  in  the  pines  and  gave  groan  for  groan. 

2  A  9  


282 


POEMS    WRITTEN    IN    1820. 


The  garden,  once  fair,  became  cold  and  foul, 
JAke  the  corpse  of  her  who  had  been  its  soul : 
Which  at  first  was  lovely  as  if  in  sleej), 
Then  slowly' changed,  till  it  grew  a  heap 
To  make  men  tremble  who  never  weep. 

Swift  summer  in  to  the  autimm  flowed, 
And  frost  in  the  mist  of  the  morning  rode, 
Though  the  noonday  sun  looked  clear  and  bright, 
Mocking  the  spoil  of  the  secret  night. 

The  rose-leaves,  like  flakes  of  crimson  snow, 
Paved  the  turf  and  the  moss  below. 
The  lilies  were  drooping,  and  white,  and  wan, 
Like  the  head  and  the  skin  of  a  dying  man. 

And  Indian  plants,  of  scent  and  hue 
The  sweetest  that  ever  were  fed  on  dew, 
Leaf  after  leaf,  day  by  day. 
Were  massed  into  the  common  clay. 

And  the  leaves,  brown,  yellow,  and  gray,  and  red, 
And  white  with  the  whiteness  of  what  is  dead, 
Like  troops  of  ghosts  on  the  dry  wind  past ; 
Their  whistling  noise  made  the  birds  aghast. 

And  the  gusty  winds  waked  the  winged  seeds 
Out  of  their  birthplace  of  ugly  weeds. 
Till  they  clung  round  many  a  sweet  flower's  stem. 
Which  rotted  into  the  earth  with  them. 

The  water-blooms  under  the  rivulet 
Fell  from  the  stalks  on  which  they  were  set ; 
And  the  eddies  drove  them  here  and  there, 
As  the  winds  did  those  of  the  upper  air. 

Then  the  rain  came  down,  and  the  broken  stalks 
Were  bent  and  tangled  across  the  walks : 
And  the  leafless  network  of  parasite  bowers 
Massed  into  ruin,  and  all  sweet  flowers. 

Between  the  time  of  the  wind  and  the  snow. 

All  loalhliest  weeds  began  to  grow, 

Whose  coarse  leaves  were  splashed  with  many  a 

speck 
Like  the  water-snake's  belly  and  the  toad's  back. 

And  thistles,  and  nettles,  and  darnels  rank. 
And  the  dock,  and  henbane,  and  hemlock  dank, 
Stretch'd  out  its  long  and  hollow  shank. 
And  stifled  the  air  till  the  dead  wind  stank. 

And  plants,  at  whose  names  the  verse  feels  loath, 
Filled  the  piaco  with  a  monstrous  undergrowth. 
Prickly,  and  pulpous,  and  blistering,  and  blue, 
Livid,  and  starred  with  a  lurid  dew. 

And  agarics  and  fungi,  with  mildew  and  mould. 
Started  like  mist  from  the  wet  ground  cold ; 
Pale,  fleshy,  as  if  the  decaying  dead 
With  a  spirit  of  growth  had  been  animated  ! 

Their  moss  rotted  off  them,  flake  by  flake, 
Till  the  thick  stalk  stuck  like  a  murderer's  stake ; 
Where  rags  of  loose  flesh  yet  tremble  on  high, 
Infecting  the  winds  that  wander  by. 


Spawn,  weeds,  and  filth,  a  leprous  scum. 
And  at  its  outlet,  flags  huge  as  stakes 
Made  the  running  rivulet  thick  and  dumb. 
Dammed   it  up   with   roots  knotted    like   water- 
snalces. 

And  hour  by  hour,  when  the  air  was  still. 
The  vapours  arose  which  have  strength  to  b'fl  : 
At   morn    they  were    seen,   at   noon    they  were 

felt. 
At    night    they   were   darkness    no    star    could 

melt. 

And  unctuous  meteors  from  spray  to  sp7ay 
Crept  and  flitted  in  broad  noonday 
Unseen ;  every  branch  on  which  they  alit 
By  a  venomous  blight  was  burned  and  bit. 

The  Sensitive  Plant,  like  one  forbid. 
Wept,  and  the  tears  within  each  lid 
Of  its  folded  leaves  which  together  grew. 
Were  changed  to  a  bUght  of  frozen  glue. 

For  the  leaves  soon  fell,  and  the  branches  soon 
By  the  heavy  axe  of  the  blast  were  hewn ; 
The  sap  shrank  to  the  root  through  every  pore, 
As  blood  to  a  heart  that  will  beat  no  more. 

For  Winter  came  :  the  wind  was  his  whip  ; 
One  choppy  finger  was  on  his  hp : 
He  had  torn  the  cataracts  from  tlie  hills. 
And  they  clanked  at  his  girdle  like  manacles ; 

His  breath  was  a  chain  which  without  a  sound 
The  earth,  and  the  air,  and  the  water  bound  ; 
He  came,  fiercely  driven  in  his  chariot-throne 
By  the  tenfold  blasts  of  the  arctic  zone. 

Then   the  weeds  which   were    forms   of    living 

death. 
Fled  from  the  frost  to  the  earth  beneath  : 
Their  decay  and  sudden  flight  from  frost 
Was  but  like  the  vanishmg  of  a  ghost ! 

And  under  the  roots  of  the  Sensitive  Plant 
The  moles  and  the  dormice  died  for  want : 
The  birds  dropped  stiff  from  the  frozen  air. 
And   were   caught  in   the   branches  naked   and 
bare. 

First  there  came  down  a  thawing  rain. 
And  its  dull  drops  froze  on  the  boughs  again. 
Then  there  steamed  up  a  fi-eczing  dew 
Which  to  the  drops  of  the  thaw-rain  grew  ; 

And  a  northern  whirlwind,  wandering  about 
Like  a  wolf  that  had  smelt  a  dead  child  out. 
Shook   the  boughs  thus  laden,    and  heavy   and 

stifi; 
And  snapped  them  off  with  his  rigid  griff. 

When  winter  had  gone  and  spring  came  back, 

The  Sensitive  Plant  was  a  leafless  wreck ; 

But  the  mandrakes,  and  toadstools,  and  docks,  and 

darnels. 
Rose  like  the  dead  irom  their  ruined  charnels. 


A   VISION    OF    THE    SEA. 


283 


CONCLUSION. 

WiiETHEU  the  Sensitive  Plant,  or  that 
Which  within  its  'loughs  like  a  spirit  sat, 
Ere  its  outward  form  liad  known  decay, 
Now  felt  this  change,  I  cannot  say. 

Whether  that  lady's  gentle  mind, 
No  longer  with  tlie  form  combined 
Which  scattered  love,  as  stars  do  light, 
Found  sadness,  where  it  left  delight, 

I  dare  not  guess ;  but  in  this  life 
Of  error,  ignorance  and  strife. 
Where  nothing  is,  but  all  things  seem, 
And  we  the  shadows  of  the  dream, 

It  is  a  modest  creed  and  yet 
Pleasant,  if  one  considers  it, 
To  own  that  death  itself  must  be, 
Like  all  the  rest,  a  mockery. 

That  garden  sweet,  that  lady  fair, 
And  all  sweet  shapes  and  odours  there, 
In  truth  have  never  passed  away : 
'Tis  we,  'tis  ours,  are  changed  !  not  they. 

For  love,  and  beauty,  and  delight. 
There  is  no  death  nor  change ;  their  might 
Exceeds  our  organs,  which  endure 
No  light,  being  themselves  obscure. 


A  VISION  OF  THE  SEA. 


'Tis  the  terror  of  tempest.     The  rags  of  the  sail 
Are  flickering  in  ribbons  within  the  tierce  gale : 
From  the  stark  night  of  vapours  the  dim  rain  is 

driven. 
And  when  lightning  is  loosed  like  a  deluge  from 

heaven, 
She  sees  the  black  trunks  of  the  waterspouts  spin. 
And  bend,  as  if  heaven  was  nmning  in, 
Which  they  seemed  to  sustain  with  their  terrible 

mass  [pass 

As  if  ocean  had  sunk  from  beneath  them  :  they 
To  their  graves  in  the  deep  with  an  earthquake  of 

sound. 
And   the  waves  and  the   thunders,  made   silent 

around. 
Leave  the  wind  to  its  echo.  The  vessel,  now  tossed 
Through  the  low  traihng  Tack  of  the  tempest,  is 

lost  [sweep 

In  the  skirts  of  the  thunder-cloud  :  now  down  the 
Of  the  wind-cloven  wave  to  the  chasm  of  the  deep 
It  sinks,  and  the  walls  of  the  watery  vale 
Whose  depths  of  dread  calm  are  unmoved  by  the 

gale. 
Dim  mirrors  of  ruin,  hang  gleaming  about; 
While  the  surf,  like  a  chaos  of  stars,  like  a  rout 
Of   death-flames,    like  whirlpools    of    fireflowing 

iron. 
With  splendour  and  terror  the  black  ship  environ  ; 


Or  like  sulphur-flakes  hurled  from  a  mine  of  pale 

fire, 
In  fountains  spout  o'er  it.    In  many  a  spire 
The  pyramid-billows,  with  white  points  of  brine. 
In  the  cope  of  the  lightning  inconstantly  shine. 
As  })iercing  the  sky  from  the  floor  of  the  sea. 

The  great  ship  seems  splitting  !  it  cracks  as  9,  tree, 
Wliilc  an  cartlnjuake  is  splintering  its  root,  ere  the 

blast  [past. 

Of  the   whirlwind  that  stript  it  of  branches  has 
■The  intense  thunder-balls  which  are  raining  from 

heaven 
Have  shattered  its  mast,  and  it  stands  black  and 

riven. 
The  chinks  suck  destruction.  The  heavy  dead  hulk 
On  the  living  sea  rolls  an  inanimate  bulk. 
Like  a  corpse  on  the  clay  which  is  hung'ring  to 

fold 
Its  corruption    around   it.     Meanwhile,  from   the 

hold, 
One  deck  is  burst  up  from  the  waters  below, 
And  it  splits  like  the  ice  when  the  thaw-breezes 

blow 
O'er  the  lakes  of  the  desert !  Who  sit  on  the  other  1 
Is  that  all  the  crew  that  lie  burying  each  other. 
Like  the  dead  in  a  breach,  round  the  foremast  1 

Are  those 
Twin  tigers,  who  burst,  when  the  waters  arose, 
In  the  agony  of  terror,  their  chains  in  the  hold 
(What  now  makes  them  tame,  is  what  then  made 

them  bold) 
Who  crouch,  side  by  side,  and  have  driven,  like,  a 

crank,  [plank  1 

The  deep  grip  of  their  claws  through  the  vibrating 
Are  these  all ! 

Nine  weeks  the  tall  vessel  had  lain 
On  the  windless  expanse  of  the  watery  plain, 
Where  the  death-darting  sun  cast  no   shadow  at 

noon, 
And  there  seemed  to  he  fire  m  the  beams  of  the 

moon. 
Till  a  lead-coloured  fog  gathered  up  fi'om  the  deep. 
Whose  breath  was  quick  pestilence ;  then,  the  cold 

sleep 
Crept,  like  blight  through  the. ears  of  a  thick  field 

of  corn. 
O'er  the  populous  vessel.     And  even  and  morn, 
With   their    hammocks    for    coffins   the    seamen 

aghast 
Like  dead  men  the  dead  limbs  of  their  comrades 

cast 
Down  the  deep,  which  closed  on  them  above  and 

around, 
And  the  sharks  and  the  dog-fish  their  grave-clothes 

iniboinid, 
And  were  glutted  like  Jews  with  this  manna  rained 

down 
From  God  on  their  wilderness.     One  after  one 
The  mariners  died ;  on  the  eve  of  this  day. 
When  the  tempest  was  gathering  in  cloudy  array. 
But  seven  remained.    Six  the  thunder  had  smitten, 
And  they  lie  black  as  mummies  on  which  Time 

has  written 


284- 


POEMS    WRITTEN    IN    1820. 


His  scom  of  the  embalmer ;  the  seventh,  from  the 

deck 
An  oak  splinter  pierced  througli  his  breast  and  his 

back, 
And  hung  out  to  the  tempest,  a  wreck  on  the  wreck. 

No  more  ]     At  the  hehn  sits  a  woman  more  fair 
Than    heaven,  when    unbinding   its  star-braided 

hair, 
It  sinks  with  the  sun  on  the  earth  and  the  sea. 
She  chisps  a  briirht  child  on  her  upgathcrcd  knee. 
It  laughs    at  the    lightning,  it  mocks  the  mixed 

thunder 
Of  the  air  and  the  sea,  with  desire  and  with  wonder 
It  is  beckoning  the  tigers  to  rise  and  come  near. 
It  would  ])lay  with  those  eyes  where  the  radiance 

of  fear 
Is  outshining  the  meteors ;  its  bosom  beats  high, 
The  heart-lire  of  pleasure  has  kindled  its  eye  ; 
Whilst  its  mother's  is  lustreless.     "  Smile  not,  my 

child. 
But  sleep  deeply  and  sweetlj'^,  and  so  be  beguiled 
Of  the  pang  that  awaits  us,  whatever  that  be, 
So  dreadful  since  thou  must  divide  it  with  me ! 
Dream,  sleep  !  This  pale  bosom,  thy  cradle  and 

bed, 
Will  it  rock  thee  not,  infant  ]     'Tis  beating  with 

dread  ! 
Alas  ?  what  is  life,  what  is  death,  what  are  we. 
That  when  the  ship  sinks  we  no  longer  may  be  1 
What !  to  see  thee  no  more,  and  to  feel  thee  no 

more  ] 
To  be  after  life  what  we  have  been  before  ]  [eyes, 
Not  to  touch  those  sweet  hands,  not  to  look  on  those 
Those  lips  and  that  hair,  all  that  smiling  disguise 
Thou  yet  wearcst,  sweet  spirit,  which  I,  day  by  day. 
Have  so  long  called  my  child,  but  which  now  fades 

away 
Like  a  rainbow  and  I  the  fallen  shower  1" 

Lo !  the  ship 
Is  setthng,  it  topples,  the  leeward  ports  dip ; 
The  tigers  leap  up  when  they  feel  the  slow  brine 
Crawling  inch  by  inch  on  them ;  hair,  ears,  hmbs, 

and  eync. 
Stand  rigid  with  horror  ;  a  loud,  long,  hoarse  cry 
Burst  at  once  from  their  vitals  tremendously. 
And  'tis  borne  down  the  mountainous  vale  of  the 

wave. 
Rebounding,  like  thunder,  from  crag  to  cave, 
Mixed  with  the  clash  of  the  lashing  rain, 
Hurried  on  by  the  might  of  the  hurricane  : 
The  hurricane  came  from  the  west,  and  past  on 
By  the  path  of  the  gate  of  the  eastern  sun, 
Tranverscly  dividing  the  stream  of  the  storm ; 
As  an  arrowy  serpent,  pursuing  the  form 
Of  an  elephant,  bursts  through  the  brakes  of  the 

waste. 
Black  as  a  cormorant  the  screaming  blast, 
Between  ocean  and  heaven,  like  an  ocean,  past, 
Till   it  came  to   the  clouds  on  the  verge  of  the 

world 
Which  based  on  tlie  sea  and  to  heaven  upcurled, 
Like  columns  and  walls  did  surround  and  sustain 
The  dome  of  the  tempest ;  it  rent  them  in  twain, 


As  a  flood  rends  its  banicrs  of  mountainous  crag : 
And  the  dense  clouds  in  many  a  ruin  and  rag. 
Like   the  stones  of  a  temple  ere  earthijuake  has 

past, 
Like  the  dust  of  its  fall,  on  the  whirlwind  are  cast ; 
They  are  scattered  like  foam  on  the  torrent ;   and 

where 
The  wind  has  burst  out  through  the  chasm,  from 

the  air 
Of  clear  morning,  the  beams  of  the  sunrise  flow  in. 
Unimpeded,  keen,  golden,  and  crystalline. 
Banded  armies  of  light  and  of  air ;  at  one  gate 
They  encounter,  but  interpenetrate. 
And  that  breach  in  the  tempest  is  widening  away, 
And  the  caverns  of  cloud  are  torn  up  by  the  day, 
And  the  fierce  winds  are  sinking  with  weary  wings, 
Lulled  by  the  motion  and  murmurings. 
And  the  long  glassy  heave  of  the  rocking  sea. 
And  over  head  glorious,  but  dreadful  to  see. 
The  wrecks  of  the  tempest,  like  vapours  of  gold. 
Are  consuming  in   sunrise.     The  heaped  waves 

behold. 
The  deep  calm  of  blue  heaven  dilating  above. 
And,  like  passions  made  still  by  the  presence  of 

Love, 
Beneath  the  clear  surface  reflecting  it  slide 
Trcnudous  with  soft  influence ;  extending  its  tide 
From  the  Andes  to  Atlas,  round  mountain  and  isle, 
Round  sea-birds  and  wrecks,  paved  with  heaven's 

azure  smile. 
The  wide  world  of  waters  is  vibrating. 

Where 
Is  the  ship]  On  the  verge  of  the  wave  where  it  lay 
One  tiger  is  mingled  in  ghastly  aflray 
With  a  sea-snake.  The  foam  and  the  smoke  of  the 

battle 
Stain  the  clear  air  with  sunbows  ;  the  jar,  and  the 

rattle 
Of  solid  bones  crushed  by  the  infinite  stress 
Of  the  snake's  adamantine  voluminousness ; 
And  the  hum  of  the  hot  blood  that  spouts  and  rains 
Where   the  gripe  of  the  tiger  has  wounded  the 

veins. 
Swollen  with  rage,  stren^h,  and  effort ;  the  whirl 

and  the  splash 
As  of  some  hideous  engine  whose  brazen  teeth  smash 
The  thin  winds  and  soft  waves  into  thmadcr !  the 

screams 
And  hissings  crawl    fost  o'er  the    smooth  ocean- 
streams. 
Each  sound  like  a  centipede.  Near  this  commotion, 
A  blue  shark  is  hanging  within  the  blue  ocean. 
The  fm-winged  tomb  of  the  victor.     The  other 
Is  winning  his  way  from  the  fate  of  his  brother. 
To  his  own  with  the  speed  of  despair.  Lo  !  %  boat 
Advances ;    twelve  rowers  with    the  impulse   of 

thought,  [stem 

Urge  on  the  keen  keel,  the  brine  foams.     At  the 
Three    marksmen   stand    levelling.     Hot  bullets 

burn 
In  the  breast  of  the  tiger,  which  yet  bears  him  on 
To  his  refuge  and  ruin.     One  fragment  alone, 
'Tis  dwindling  and  sinking,  'tis  now  almost  gone. 
Of  the  wreck  of  the  vessel  peers  out  of  the  sea. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


285 


With  her  left  hand  she  grasps  it  impetuously, 
With  her  right  she  sustains  her  fair  infant.  Denth, 

Fear, 
Love,  Beauty,  are  mixed  in  the  atmosphere. 
Which  trembles  and  burns  with  the  fervour  of 

dread 
Around  her  wild   eyes,  her  bright  hand,  and  her 

head, 
Like  a  meteor  of  light  o'er  the  waters  !.  her  child 
Is  yet  smiling,  and  playing,  and   murnmriug  :  so 

smiled 
The  flilse  deep  ere  the  storm.     Like  a  sister  and 

brother 
The  child  and  the  ocean  still  smile  on  each  other, 
Wliilst 


THE  CLOUD. 


I  BRING  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting  flowers, 

Prom  the  seas  and  the  streams ; 
I  bear  light  shades  for  the  leaves  when  laid 

In  their  noonday  dreams. 
From  my  wings  are  shaken  the  dews  that  waken 

The  sweet  buds  every  one, 
When  rocked  to  rest  on  their  mother's  breast, 

As  she  dances  about  the  sun. 
I  wield  the  flail  of  the  lashing  hail, 

And  whiten  the  green  plains  under, 
And  then  again  I  dissolve  it  in  rain. 

And  laugh  as  I  pass  in  thunder. 

II. 

•I  sift  the  snow  on  the  mountains  below, 

And  their  great  pines  groan  aghast ; 
And  all  the  night  'tis  my  pillow  white, 

WhUe  I  sleep  in  the  arms  of  the  blast. 
Subhme  on  the  towers  of  my  skiey  bowers, 

Lightning  my  pilot  sits. 
In  a  cavern  under  is  fettered  the  thunder, 

It  struggles  and  howls  at  fits ; 
Over  earth  and  ocean  with  gentle  motion, 

This  pilot  is  guiding  me, 
Lured  by  the  love  of  the  genii  that  move 

In  the  depths  of  the  purple  sea ; 
Over  the  rills,  and  the  crags,  and  the  hills, 

Over  the  lakes  and  the  plains. 
Wherever  he  dream,  under  mountain  or  stream. 

The  Spirit  he  loves  remains ; 
And  I  all  the  while  bask  in  heaven's  blue  smile, 

Whilst  he  is  dissolving  in  rains. 


The  sanguine  sunrise,  with  its  meteor  eyes, 

And  his  burning  plumes  outspread, 
Leaps  on  the  back  of  my  sailing  rack. 

When  the  morning  star  shines  dead. 
As  on  the  jag  of  a  mountain  crag. 

Which  an  earthquake  rocks  and  swings, 
An  eagle  alit  one  moment  may  sit 

In  the  light  of  its  golden  wings. 
And  when  sunset  may  breathe,  from  the  lit  sea 
beneath, 


Its  ardours  of  rest  and  of  love. 
And  the  crimson  pall  of  eve  may  fall 

From  the  depth  of  heaven  above. 
With  wings  folded  I  rest,  on  mine  airy  nest, 

As  still  as  a  brooding  dove. 


That  orbed  maiden,  with  white  fire  laden, 

Whom  mortals  call  the  moon, 
Glides  glimmering  o'er  my  fleece-hke  floor. 

By  the  midnight  breezes  strewn  ; 
And  wherever  the  beat  of  lier  unseen  feet. 

Which  only  the  angels  hear. 
May  have  broken  the  woof  of  my  tent's  tliin  roof, 

The  stars  peep  behind  her  and  peer; 
And  I  laugh  to  see  them  whirl  and  flee. 

Like  a  swarm  of  golden  bees, 
When  I  widen  the  rent  in  my  wind-built  tent. 

Till  the  calm  rivers,  lakes,  and  seas. 
Like  strips  of  the  sky  fallen  through  mc  on  high. 

Are  each  paved  with  the  moon  and  these. 


I  bind  the  sun's,  throne  with  the  burning  zone, 

And  the  moon's  with  a  girdle  of  pearl ; 
The  volcanoes  are  dim,  and  the  stars  reel  and  swim, 

When  the  whirlwinds  my  banner  mifurl, 
From  cape  to  cape,  with  a  bridge-like  shape. 

Over  a  torrent  sea. 
Sunbeam-proof,  I  hang  like  a  roof. 

The  mountains  its  columns  be. 
The  triumphal  arch  through  which  I  march, 

With  hurricane,  fire,  and  snow, 
When  the  powers  of  the  air  are  chained  to  my  chair, 

Is  the  million-coloured  bow ; 
The  sphere-fire  above  its  soft  colours  wove. 

While  the  moist  earth  was  laughing  below. 


I  am  the  daughter  of  earth  and  water, 

And  the  nursUng  of  the  sky : 
I  pass  through  the  pores  of  the  ocean  and  shores; 

I  change,  but  I  cannot  die. 
For  after  the  rain,  when  with  never  a  stain, 

The  pavilion  of  heaven  is  bare, 
And  the  winds  and  the  sunbeams  with  their  convex 

Biuld  up  the  blue  dome  of  air,  [gleams, 

I  silently  laugh  at  my  own  cenotaph. 

And  out  of  the  caverns  of  rain. 
Like  a  child  from  the  womb,  like  a  ghost  fi-om  the 

I  arise  and  unbuild  it  again.  [tomb, 


LOVE'S  PHILOSOPHY. 


Thk  fountains  mingle  with  the  river, 

And  the  rivers  with  the  ocean. 
The  winds  of  heaven  mix  for  ever 

Vi'ith  a  sweet  emotion  ; 
Nothing  in  the  world  is  single  ; 

AH  things  by  a  law  divine' 
In  one  another's  being  mingle — 

Why  not  I  with  thine  1    . 


286 


POEMS    WRITTEN    IN    1820. 


Sec  the  mountains  kiss  high  heaven, 

And  the  waves  clasp  one  another ; 
No  sister  flower  woulil  be  forgiven 

If  it  disdained  its  brother : 
And  the  sunlight  clasps  the  earth, 

And  the  moonbeams  kiss  the  sea  ;- 
What  are  all  these  kissings  worth, 

If  tliou  kiss  not  me  ! 
January,  1S'20. 


TO 


I  FEAK  thy  kisses,  gentle  maiden, 
Thou  ncedcst  not  fear  mine ; 

My  spirit  is  too  deeply  laden 
Ever  to  burden  thine. 

I  fear  thy  mien,  thy  tones,  thy  motion, 
Thou  needest  not  fear  mine ; 

Innocent  is  the  heart's  devotion 
With  which  I  worship  thine. 


TO  A  SKYLARK. 


Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit! 

Bird  thou  never  wert, 
That  from  heaven,  or  near  it, 

Pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art. 

II. 

Higher  still  and  higher. 

From  the  earth  thou  springest 
Like  a  cloud  of  fire ; 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingest, 
And  singing  still  dost  soar,  and  soaring  ever  singest. 


In  the  golden  lightning 

Of  the  sunken  sun. 
O'er  which  clouds  are  brightening. 

Thou  dost  float  and  run  ; 
Like  an  unbodied  joy  whose  race  is  just  begim. 

IV. 

The  pale. purple  even 

Melts  around  thy  flight ; 
Like  a  star  of  heaven. 

In  the  broad  daylight 
Thou  art  unseen,  but  yet  I  hear  thy  shrill  delight. 


Keen  as  are  the  arrows 

Of  that  silver  sphere. 
Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 

In  the  white  dawn  clear. 
Until  we  hardly  see,  we  feel  that  it  is  there. 


VI. 

All  the  earth  and  air 

With  thy  voice  is  loud. 
As,  when  night  is  bare. 

From  one  lonely  cloud 
The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and    heaven  is 
overflowed. 


What  thou  art  we  know  not ; 

What  is  most  like  thee  ] 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 
Drops  so  bright  to  see. 
As  from  thy  presence  showers  a  rain  of  melody. 


Like  a  poet  hidden 

In  the  Ught  of  thought, 
Singing  hymns  unbidden. 
Till  the  world  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded  not : 


Like  a  highborn  maiden 

In  a  palace  tower, 
Soothing  her  love-laden 

■Soul  in  secret  hour 
With  music  sweet  as  love,  which  overflows  her 
bower : 


Like  a  glowworm  golden 

In  a  dell  of  dew, 
Scattering  unbeholden 

Its  aerial  hue 
Among  the  flowers  and  grass,  -which  screen  it  from 
the  view : 


Like  a  rose  embowered 

In  its  own  green  leaves. 
By  warm  winds  deflowered, 

Till  the  scent  it  gives 
Makes  faint  with  too  much  sweet   these  heavy- 
winged  thieves. 


Sound  of  vernal  showers 

On  the  twinkling  grass, 
Rain-awakened  flowers. 

All  that  ever  was 
Joyous,  and  clear,  and  fresh,  thy  music  doth  surj^ass. 


Teach  us,  sprite  or  bird. 

What  sweet  thoughts  arc  thine : 

I  have  never  heard  • 
Praise  of  love  or  wine 
That  panted  forth  a  flood  of  rapture  so  divine. 


Chorus  hymeneal. 

Or  triumphal  chaunt, 
Matched  with  thine  would  be  all 

But  an  empty  vaunt — 
A  thing  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some  hidden  want. 


ODE    TO    LIBERTY. 


287 


\^' hat  objects  arc  the  fountains 

Of  thy  hapjn-  strain  ] 
Wiiat  liekls,  or  waves,  or  mountains  ? 
What  shapes  of  sky  or  pUiin  ] 
What  love  of  thine  own  kind  }  what  ignorance  of 
pain  ! 

xvr. 
With  thy  clear  keen  joyance 

Languor  cannot  be : 
Shadow  of  annoyance 
Never  came  near  thee : 
Thou  lovest ;  but  ne'er  knew  love's  sad  satiety. 

xvir. 
Waking  or  asleep, 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep 
Than  we  mortals  dream, 
Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such  a  crystal  stream  1 

XVIII. 

We  look  before  and  after, 

And  pine  for  what  is  not: 
Our  sincercst  laughter 

With  some  pain  is  fraught; 
Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  that  tell  of  saddest 
thought. 

XIX. 

Yet  if  we  could  scorn      ^ 

Hate,  and  pride,  and  fear ; 
If  we  were  things  horn 

Not  to  shed  a  tear, 
I  know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  should  come  near. 

XX. 

Better  than  all  measures 

Of  delightful  sound. 
Better  than  all  treasures 

That  in  books  are  found. 
Thy  skill  to  poet  were,  thou  scorner  of  the  ground ! 

XXI. 

Teach  me  half  the  gladness 

That  thy  brain  must  know, 
Such  harmonious  madness 

From  my  lips  would  flow. 
The  world  should  listen  then,  as  I  am  listening  now. 


ODE  TO   LIBERTY. 


Yet  freedom,  yet,  thy  banner  torn  but  flying. 
Streams  like  a  ihiinder-storni  against  the  wind. 


A  GLORiors  people  vibrated  again 

The  lightning  of  the  nations:  Liberty, 

From  heart  to  heart,  from  tower  to  tower,  o'er 
Spain, 
Scattering  contagious  fire  into  the  sky, 


Gleamed.  My  soul  spurned  the  chains  of  its  dismay 

And,  in  the  rapid  plumes  of  song. 

Clothed  itself.subUmc  and  strong; 

As  a  young  eagle  soars  the  morning  clouds  among, 

Hovering  in  verse  o'er  its  accustomed  prey  ; 

Till  from  its  station  in  the  heaven  of  fame 
The  Spirit's  whirlwind  rapt  it,  and  the  ray 
Of  the  remotest  sphere  of  living  flame 
Which  paves  the  void,  was  from  behind  it  fltmg. 
As  foam  from  a  ship's  swiftness,  when  there  came 
A  voice  out  of  the  dee}) ;  I  will  record  the  same. 


The  Sun  and  the  serenest  Moon  sprang  forth  ; 

The  burning  stars  of  the  abyss  were  hurl'd 
Into  the  depths  of  heaven.     The  da-dal  earth. 

That  island    in  the  ocean  of  the  world, 
Hung  in  its  cloud  of  all-sustaining  air : 
But  this  divinest  universe 
Was  yet  a  chaos  and  a  curse. 
For  thou  wcrt  not :  but  power  from  worse  produc- 
ing worse. 
The  spirit  of  the  beasts  was  kindled  there. 
And  of  the  birds,  and  of  the  watery  forms, 
And  there  was  war  among  them  and  despair 

Within  them,  raging  without  truce  or  terms  : 
The  bosom  of  their  violated  nurse 

Groaned,  for  beasts  warred  on  beasts,  and  worms 

on  worms,  [storms. 

And  men  on  men ;  each  heart  was  as  a  hell  of 

in. 

Man,  the  imperial  shape,  then  multiplied 

His  generations  under  the  pavihon 
Of  the  sun's  throne :  palace  and  pyramid, 

Temple  and  prison,  to  many  a  swarming  million, 
Were,  as  to  mountain-wolves  their  ragged  caves. 
This  human  living  multitude 
Was  savage,  cunning,  blind  and  rude, 
For  thou  wert  not ;  but  o'er  the  populous  solitude, 
Like  one  fierce  cloud  over  a  waste  of  waves, 

Hung  tyranny ;  beneath,  sate  deified 
The  sister-pest,  congregator  of  slaves ; 
Into  the  shadow  of  her  pinions  wide. 
Anarchs  and  priests  who  feed  on  gold  and  blood. 
Till  with  the  stain  their  inmost  souls  are  dyed. 
Drove  the  astonished  herds  of  men  from  every 
side. 


The  nodding  promontories,  and  blue  isles. 

And  cloud-like  mountains,  and  dividuous  waves 
Of  Greece,  basked  glorious  in  the  open  smiles 

Of  favouring  heaven  ;  from  their  enchanted  caves 
Prophetic  echoes  flung  dim  melody 
On -the  unapprehensive  wild. 
The  vine,  the  corn,  the  olive  mild. 
Grew,  savage  yet,  to  human  use  unreconciled ; 

And  like  unfolded  flowers  beneath  the  sea. 
Like  the  man's  thought,  dark  in  the  infant's  brain. 
Like  aught  that  is  which  wraps  what  is  to  he. 
Art's  deathless  dreams  lay  veiled  by  many  a  vein 
Of  Parian  stone  ;  and  yet  a  speechless  child. 
Verse  murmured,  and  Philosophy  did  strain 
Her  lidlcss  eyes  for  thee ;  when  o'er  the  -Egean 
main 


POEMS    WRITTEN    IN    182  0. 


Athens  arose  ;  a  city  such  as  vision 

Builds  from  the  purple  crags  and  silver  towers 
Of  battlcmentcd  cloud,  as  in  dirision 

Of  kingliest  masonry  :  the  ocean  floors 
Pave  it;  the  evening  sky  pavilions  it; 
Its  portals  are  inhabited 
By  thunder-zoned  winds,  each  head 
Within  its  cloudy  wings  with  sun-fire  garlanded, 
A  divine  work  !  Athens  diviner  yet 

Gleamed  with  its  crest  of  columns,  on  the  will 
Of  man,  as  on  a  mount  of  diamond,  set ; 
For  thou  wert,  and  thine  all-creative  skill 
Peopled,  with  forms  that  mock  the  eternal  dead 
In  marble  immortality,  that  hill 
A\' hich  was  thine  earhest  throne  and  latest  oracle. 


Within  the  surface  of  Time's  fleeting  river 

Its  wrinkled  image  lies,  as  then  it  lay 
Immovably  unquiet,  and  for  ever 

It  trembles,  but  it  cannot  pass  away  ! 
The  voices  of  thy  bards  and  sages  thunder 
With  an  earth-awakening  blast 
Through  the  caverns  of  the  past ; 
Religion  veils  her  eyes ;  Oppression  shrinks  aghast : 
A  winged  sound  of  joy,  and  love,  and  wonder. 
Which  soars  where  Expectation  never  flew, 
Rending  the  veil  of  space  and  time  asunder ! 
One  ocean  feeds  the  clouds,  and  streams,  and 
dew ;  ■ 
One  sun  illumines  Heaven ;  one  spirit  vast 
With  life  and  love  makes  chaos  ever  new, 
As  Athens  doth  the  world  with  thy  delights  renew. 


Then  Rome  was,  and  from  thy  deep  bosom  fairest. 

Like  a  wolf-cub  from  Cadnifean  Msenad,* 
She  drew  the  milk  of  greatness,  though  thy  dearest 

From  that  Elysian  food  was  yet  unweaned ; 
And  many  a  deed  of  terrible  uprightness 
By  thy  sweet  love  was  sanctified  ; 
And  in  thy  smile,  and  by  thy  side, 
Saintly  Camillas  lived,  and  firm  Atilius  died. 
But  when  tears  stained  tliy  robe  of  vestal  white- 
ness, 
And  gold  profaned  thy  capitolian  throne. 
Thou  didst  desert,  with  spirit-Tinngcd  lightness, 
The  senate  of  the  tyrants :  they  sunk  prone 
Slaves  of  one  tyrant.     Palatinus  sighed 
Faint  echoes  of  Ionian  song  ;  that  tone 
Thou  didst  delay  to  hear,  lamenting  to  disovm. 


From  what  Hyrcanian  glen  or  fi-ozen  hill, 
Or  piny  promontory  of  the  Arctic  main, 
Or  utmost  islet  inaccessible. 

Didst  thou  lament  the  ruin  of  thy  reign. 
Teaching  the  woods  and  waves,  and  desert  rocks. 
And  every  Naiad's  ice-cold  urn, 
To  talk  in  echoes  sad  and  stern, 
Of  that  sublimest  lore  which  man  had  dared  un- 
learn ] 

♦  See  the  BacchsB  of  Euripides. 


For  neither  didst  thou  watch  the  wizard  flocks 

Of  the  Scald's  dreams,  nor  haunt  the  Druid's 

sleep.  [locks. 

What  if  the  tears  rained  through  thy  shattered 

Were  quickly  dried  ]  for  thou  didst  groan,  not 

When  from  its  sea  of  death  to  kill  and  burn  [weep. 

The  Galilean  serpent  forth  did  creep. 

And  made  thy  world  an  uhdistinguishable  heap. 


A  thousand  years  the  earth  cried,  NA'here  art  thou  ? 

And  then  the  shadow  of  thy  coming  fell 
On  Saxon  Alfred's  olive-chictured  brow  : 

And  many  a  warrior-peopled  citadel. 
Like  rocks,  which  fire  lifts  out  of  the  flat  deep. 
Arose  in  sacred  Italy, 
Frowning  o'er  the  tempestuous  sea 
Of  kings,  and  priests,  and  slaves,  ui  tower-crowned 
majesty ; 
That  multitudinous  anarchy  did  sweep. 

And  burst  around  their  walls,  like  idle  foam. 
Whilst  from  the  human  spirit's  deepest  deep, 
Strage   melody  with  love  and  awe  struck  dumb 
Dissonant  arms;  and  Art  which  cannot  die, 
With  divine  >vant  traced  on  our  earthly  home 
Fit  imagery  to  pave  heaven's  everlasting  dome. 

^• 

Thou  huntress  swifter  than  the  IVIoon  !  thou  terror 
Of  the  world's  wolves  !  thou  bearer  of  the  quiver. 
Whose  sunlike  akaftspierce  tempest-winged  Error, 
As  light  may  pierce  the  clouds  when  they  dissever 
In  the  calm  regions  of  tlie  orient  day  ! 

Luther  caught  thy  wakening  glance : 
Like  lightning  from  his  leaden  lance 
Reflected,  it  dissolved  the  visions  of  the  trance 
In  which,  as  in  a  tomb,  the  nations  lay  ; 

And  England's  prophets  hailed  thee  as  their 
In  songs  whose  music  cannot  pass  awa)',  [queen, 
Though  it  must  flow  for  ever :  not  unseen 
Before  the  spirit-sighted  countenance 

Of  Milton  didst  thou  pass,  from  the  sad  scene 
Beyond  whose  night  he  saw,  with  a  dejected  mien. 


The  eager  hours  and  unreluctant  years 

As  on  a  dawn-illumined  mountain  stood. 
Trampling  to  silence  their  loud  hopes  and  fears 

Darkening  each  other  with  their  multitude, 
And  cried  aloud,  Liberty  !  Indignation 
Answered  Pity  from  her  cave  ; 
Death  grew  pale  within  the  grave, 
And  desolation  howled  to  the  destro3'er,  Save ! 
When,  like  heaven's  sun,  girt  by  the  exhalation 

Of  its  own  glorious  light,  thou  didst  arise, 
Chasing  thy  foes  from  nation  unto  nation 

Like  shadows  :  as  if  day  had  cloven  the  skies 
At  dreaming  midnight  o'er  the  western  wave. 
Men  started,  staggering  with  a  glad  surprise. 
Under  the  lightnings  of  thine  unfamiliar  eyes. 

XII. 

Thou  heaven  of  earth  !  what  spells  could  pall  thee 
In  ominous  eclipse  ]   A  thousand  years,    [then, 

Bred  from  the  slime  of  deep  oppression's  den, 
Dyed  all  thy  liquid  light  with  blood  and  tears. 


ODE    TO    LIBERTY. 


289 


Till  thy  sweet  stars  coulJ  weep  the  stain  away ; 
How  like  Bacchanals  of  blood 
Round  France,  the  ghastly  vintage,  stood 
Destruction's  sceptred  slaves,  and   Folly's  mitred 
brood ! 
When  one,  like  them,  but  mightier  far  than  they, 
The  anarch  of  thine  own  bewildered  powers, 
Rose:  armies  mingled  in  oliscure  array, 

Like  clouds  with  clouds,  darkening  the  sacred 
Of  serene  heaven.  He,  by  the  past  pursued,  [bowers 
Rests  with  those  dead  but  unforgotten  hours, 
Whose  ghosts  scare  victor  kings  in  their  ances- 
tral towers. 


England  yet  sleeps:  was  she  not  called  of  old? 

Spain  calls  her  now,  as  with  its  thrilling  thunder 
Vesuvius  wakens  ^^tna,  and  the  cold 

Snow-crags  by  its  reply  are  cloven  in  sunder : 
O'er  the  lit  waves  every  -Eolian  isle 
From  Pithecusa  to  Pelorus 
Howls,  and  leaps,  and  glares  in  chorus  :  [us. 
They  cry.  Be  dim,  ye  lamps  of  heaven  suspended  o'er 
Her  chains  are  threads  of  gold,  she  need  but  smile 
And  they  dissolve ;  but  Spain's  were  links  of 
Till  bit  to  dust,  by  virtue's  keenest  file,      [steel, 
Twins  of  a  single  destiny  !  appeal 
To  the  eternal  years  enthroned  before  us. 
In  the  dim  West;  impress  us  from  a  seal, 
All  ye  have  thought  and  done !  Time  cannot 
dare  conceal. 


Tomb  of  Arminius !  render  up  thy  dead 

Till,  like  a  standard  from  a  watch-tower's  staff, 
His  soul  may  stream  over  the  tyrant's  head  ! 

Thy  victory  shall  be  his  epitaph, 
Wild  Bacchanal  of  truth's  mysterious  wine, 
King-deluded  Germany, 
His  dead  spirit  lives  in  thee. 
Why  do  we  fear  or  hope  1   thou  art  already  free  ! 
And  thou,  lost  Paradise  of  this  divine 

And  glorious  world  !  tliou  flowery  wilderness ! 
Thou  island  of  eternity !  thou  shrine 

Where  desolation,  clothed  with  loveliness. 
Worships  the  thing  thou  wcrt !  O  Italy, 
Gather  thy  blood  into  thy  heart ;  repress 
The  beasts  who  make  their  dens   thy  sacred 
palaces. 

XT. 

O  that  the  free  would  stamp  the  impious  name 

Of  *  *  *  *  into  the  dust ;  or  write  it  there, 
So  that  this  blot  upon  the  page  of  fame 

Were  as  a  serpent's  path,  which  the  light  air 
Erases,  and  the  flat  sands  close  behind  ! 
Ye  the  oracle  have  heard : 
Lift  the  victory-flashing  sword. 
And  cut  the  snaky  knots  of  this  foul  gordian  word. 
Which,  weak  itself  as  stubble,  yet  can  bind 

Into  a  mass,  irrefragably  firm. 
The  axes  and  the  rods  which  awe  mankind , 
The  sound  has  poison  in  it,  'tis  the  sperm 
Of  what  makes  life  foul,  cankerous,  and  abhorred ; 
Disdain  not  thou,  at  thine  appointed  term. 
To  set  thine  armed  heel  on  this  reluctant  worm. 
37 


O  that  the  wise  from  their  bright  minds  would  kindle 
Such  lamps  within  the  dome  of  this  dim  world. 
That  the  pale  name  of  Piiijisx  might  shrink  and 
dwindle 
Into  the  hell  from  which  it  first  was  hurled, 
A  scolf  of  impious  pride  from  fiends  impure 

Till  human  thoughts  might  kneel  alone, 
Each  before  the  judgment-throne 
Of  its  own  awclcss  soul,  or  of  the  power  unknown  ! 
O  that  the  words  which  make  the  thoughts  obscure 
From  which  they  spring,  as  clouds  of  glimmer- 
ing dew 
From  a  white  lake  blot  heaven's  blue  portraiture. 

Were  stript  of  their  thin  masks  and  various  hue, 
And  frowns  and  smiles  and  splendours  not  their 
own, 
Till  in  the  nakedness  of  false  and  true 
They  stand  before  their  Lord,  each  to  receive 
its  due. 


He  who  taught  man  to  vanquish  whatsoever 
Can  be  between  the  cradle  and  the  grave. 
Crowned  him  the  King  of  Life.  O  vain  endeavour  ! 

If  on  his  own  high  will  a  willing  slave. 
He  has  enthroned  the  oppression  and  the  oppressor. 
What  if  earth  can  clothe  and  feed 
Amplest  millions  at  their  need, 
And  power  in  thought  be  as  the  tree  within  the 
Or  what  if  Art,  an  ardent  intercessor,        [seed  1 

Diving  on  fiery  wings  to  Nature's  throne, 
Checks  the  great  mother  stooping  to  caress  her. 
And  cries,  give  me,  thy  child,  dominion 
Over  all  height  and  depth  1  if  Life  can  breed 
New  wants,  and  wealth    from  those  who  toil 

and  groan. 
Rend  of  thy  gifts  and  hers  a  thousand  fold  for  one. 

XVIII. 

Come  thou,  but  lead  out  of  the  inmost  cave 
Of  man's  deep  spirit,  as  the  morning-star 
Beckons  the  Sun  from  the  Eoan  wave. 

Wisdom.     I  hear  the  pennons  of  her  car 
Self-moving  like  cloud  charioted  liy  flame  ; 
Comes  she  not,  and  come  ye  not. 
Rulers  of  eternal  thought. 
To  judge  with  solemn  truth  life's  ill-apportioned  lot  1 
Blind  Love,  and  equal  Justice,  and  the  Fame 

Of  what  has  been,  the  Hope  of  what  will  be  1 
O,  Liberty  !  if  such  could  be  thy  name 

Wcrt  thou  disjoined  from  these,  or  they  from 
thee  : 
If  thine  or  theirs  were  treasures  to  be  bought 
By  blood  or  tears,  have  not  the  wise  and  free 
Wept  tears  and  blood  like  tears  1     The  solemn 
harmony 

XIX. 

Paused,  and  the  spirit  of'  that  migiity  singing 

To  its  abyss  was  suddenly  withdrawn  ; 
Then  as  a  wild  swan,  when  sublimely  winging 
Its  path  athwart  the  thunder-smoke  of  dawn, 
Sinks  headlong  through  the  aerial  golden  light 
On  the  heavy  sounding  plain, 
When  the  bolt  has  pierced  its  brain ; 
2B 


290 


POEMS    WRITTEN    IN    1820. 


As  summer  clouds  dissolve  uiduirdened  of  their 
As  a  far  taper  fades  with  fadiiis^  night ;      [rain  ; 

As  a  brief  insect  dies  with  dying  day, 
My  song  its  pinions  disarrayed  of  might 
Drooped ;  o'er  it  closed  the  echoes  far  away 
Of  the  great  voice  which  did  its  ilight  sustain, 
As  waves  which  lately  paved  his  watery  way 
Hiss  round  a  drowuer's  head  in  their  tempestuous 
play. 


ARETHUSA. 


Arethusa  arose 

From  her  couch  of  snows 

In  the  Acroceraunian  mountains, — 
From  cloud  and  from  crag, 
With  many  a  jag. 

Shepherding  her  bright  fountains. 
She  leapt  down  the  rocks 
With  her  rainbow  locks 

Streaming  among  the  streams ; — 
Her  steps  paved  with  green 
The  downward  ravine 

Which  slopes  to  the  western  gleams  : 
And  gliding  and  springing, 
She  went,  ever  singing, 

In  murmurs  as  soft  as  sleep ; 

The  earth  seemed  to  love  her, 
And  heaven  smiled  above  her, 

As  she  lingered  towards  the  deep. 

Then  Alpheus  bold. 

On  his  glacier  cold. 
With  his  trident  the  mountains  strook; 

And  opened  a  chasm 

In  the  rocks ; — with  the  spasm 
All  Erymanthus  shook. 

And  the  black  south  wind 

It  concealed  behind 
The  urns  of  the  silent  snow. 

And  earthquake  and  thunder 

Did  rend  in  sunder 
The  bars  of  the  springs  below  : 

The  beard  and  the  hair 

Of  the  river  God  were 
Seen  through  the  torrent's  sweep, 

As  he  followed  the  light 

Of  the  fleet  nymph's  flight 
To  the  brink  of  the  Dorian  deep. 

"  Oh,  save  me  !    Oh,  guide  me ! 
And  bid  the  deep  hide  me, 

For  he  grasps  me  now  by  the  hair !" 
The  loud  ocean  heard. 
To  its  blue  depth  stirred, 

And  divided  at  her  prayer ; 
And  under  the  water 
The  Earth's  white  daughter 

Fled  like  a  sunny  beam ; 

Behind  her  descended 
Her  billows,  unblended 

With  the  brackisii  Dorian  stream : 


Like  a  gloomy  stain 

On  the  emerald  main 
Alpheus  rushed  behind, — 

As  an  eagle  pursuing 

A  dove  to  its  ruin 
Down  the  streams  of  the  cloudy  wind. 

Under  the  bowers 
Where  the  Ocean  Powers 

Sit  on  their  pearled  thrones : 

3'hrough  the  coral  woods 
Of  the  weltering  floods. 

Over  heaps  of  unvalued  stones ; 
Through  the  dim  beams 
Which  amid  the  streams 

Weave  a  network  of  coloured  light ; 
And  under  the  caves, 
Wliere  the  shadowy  waves 

Are  as  green  as  the  forest's  night: — 
Outspeeding  the  shark. 
And  the  sword-fish  dark. 

Under  the  ocean  foam. 

And  up  through  the  rifts 
Of  the  mountain  clifts 

They  passed  to  their  Dorian  home. 

And  now  from  their  fountains 

In  Eima's  mountains, 
Down  one  vale  where  the  morning  basks. 

Like  friends  once  parte^l 

Grown  single-hearted. 
They  ply  their  watery  tasks. 

At  sunrise  they  leap 

From  their  cradles  steep 
In  the  cave  of  the  shelving  hill ; 

At  noontide  thy  flow 

Through  the  woods  below 
And  the  meadows  of  Asphodel ; 

And  at  night  they  sleep 

In  the  rocking  deep 
Beneath  the  Ortygian  shore ; — 

Like  spirits  that  lie 

In  the  azure  sky 
When  they  love  but  live  no  more. 

Pisa,  1820. 


SONG  OF  PROSERPINE, 

■WHILE    GATUEHI2«e    FLOWERS    OJf   THE  PLAIIf  OF 
EXXA. 


Sacret)  Goddess,  Mother  earth, 
Thou  fronr  whose  immortal  bosom, 

Gods,  and  men,  and  beasts  have  birth. 
Leaf  and  blade,  and  bud  and  blossom, 

Breathe  thine  influence  most  divine 

On  thuic  own  child,  Proserpine. 

If  with  mists  of  evening  dew 

Thou  dost  nourish  these  young  flowers 
Till  they  grow,  in  scent  and  hue. 

Fairest  children  of  the  hours. 
Breathe  thine  influence  most  divine 
On  thine  own  child,  Proserpine. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


291 


HYMN  OF  APOLLO. 

TuK  sloo])l('Ss  Hours  who  watch  me  as  I  lie, 
Curtaincil  with  star-inwoven  tapestries, 

From  the  broad  moonlight  of  the  sky, 

Fanning  the  busy  dreams  from  my  dim  eyes, — 

^A'^akcn  me  when  their  Mother,  tlie  gray  Dawn, 

Tells  them  that  dreams  and  that  the  moon  is  gone. 

Then  I  arise,  and  cUmbing  Heaven's  blue  dome, 
I  walk  over  the  mountains  and  the  waves, 

Leaving  my  robe  upon  the  ocean  foam ; 

My  footsteps  pave  the  clouds  with  lire  :  the  caves 

Arc  filled  with  my  bright  presence,  and  the  air 

Leaves  the  green  earth  to  my  embraces  bare. 

The  sunbeams  are  my  shafts,  with  which  I  kill 

Deceit,  that  loves  the  night  and  fears  the  day ; 
All  men  who  do  or  even  imagine  ill 

Fly  me,  and  from  the  glory  of  my  ray 
Good  minds  and  open  actions  take  new  might. 
Until  diminished  by  the  reign  of  night. 

• 
I  feed  the  clouds,  the  rainbows,  and  the  flowers. 

With  their  ethereal  colours ;  the  Moon's  globe 
And  the  pure  stars  in  their  eternal  bowers 

Are  cinctured  with  my  power  as  with  a  robe ; 
Whatever  lamps  on  Earth  or  Heaven  may  shine 
Are  portions  of  one  power,  whicli  is  mine. 

I  stand  at  noon  upon  the  peak  of  Heaven, 
Then  with  unwilling  steps  I  wander  down 

Into  the  clouds  of  the  Atlantic  even  ; 

For  grief  that  I  depart  they  weep  and  frown : 

What  look  is  more  dehghtful  than  the  smile 

With  which  I  soothe  them  from  the  western  isle  T 

I  aril  the  eye  with  which  the  L'niverse 
Beholds  itself  and  knows  itself  divine  ; 

All  harmony  of  instrument  or  Terse, 
All  prophecy,  all  medicine  are  mine, 

All  light  of  art  or  nature  ; — to  my  song 

Victory  and  praise  in  their  own  right  belong. 


HYMN  OF  PAN. 


Faor  the  forests  and  highlands 

We  come,  we  come ; 
From  the  river-girt  islands, 

Where  loud  waves  are  dumb 
Listening  to  my  sweet  pipings. 
The  wind  in  the  reeds  and  the  rushes, 

The  bees  on  the  bells  of  thyme. 
The  birds  on  the  myrtle  bushes. 
The  cicale  above  in  the  lime. 
And  the  Uzards  below  in'the  grass, 
Were  as  silent  as  ever  old  Tmolus*  was, 
Listening  to  my  sweet  pipings. 

*  This  and  the  former  poem  were  written  at  the  re- 
quest of  a  friend,  to  be  inserted  in  a  drama  on  the  sub- 
ject of  Midas.  Apollo  and  Pan  contended  before  Tmolus 
for  the  prize  in  music. 


Liquid  Peneus  was  flowing. 

And  all  dark  Tcmpe  lay 
Jn  Pelion's  shadow,  outgrowing 
The  light  of  the  dying  day, 

Speeded  with  my  sweet  pipings. 
The  Siloni,  and  8ylvans,  and  Fainis, 

And  the  nymphs  of  the  woods  and  waves, 
To  the  edge  of  the  moist  river-lawns. 

And  tiic  brink  of  the  dewy  caves. 
And  all  that  did  then  attend  and  follow. 
Were  silent  with  love,  as  you  now,  Apollo, 
With  envy  of  my  sweet  pipings. 

I  sang  of  the  dancing  stars, 

I  sang  of  the  daedal  Earth, 
And  of  Heaven — and  the  giant  wars. 

And  Love,  and  Death,  and  Birth, — 
And  then  I  changed  my  pipings, — ■ 
Singing  how  down  the  vale  of  Menalus 

I  pursued  a  maiden  and  clasped  a  reed : 
Gods  and  men,  we  are  all  deluded  thus ! 

It  breaks  in  our  bosom  and  then  we  bleed : 
All  wept,  as  I  think  both  ye  now  would. 
If  envy  or  age  had  not  frozen  your  blood, 
At  the  sorrow  of  my  sweet  pipings. 


THE  QUESTION. 

I  DREAMED  that  as  I  wandered  by  the  way. 
Bare  winter  suddenly  was  changed  to  spring, 

And  gentle  odours  led  my  steps  astray, 
Mixed  with  a  sound  of  waters  murmuring 

Along  a  shelving  bank  of  turf,  which  lay 
Under  a  copse,  and  hardly  dared  to  fling 

Its  green  arms  round  the  bosom  of  the  stream. 

But  kissed  it  and  then  fled,  as  thou  mightest  in  dream. 

There  grew  pied  wind-flowers  and  violets. 

Daisies,  those  pearled  Arcturi  of  the  earth, 
The  constellated  flower  that  never  sct-s ; 

Faint  oxiips ;  tender  blue  hells,  at  whose  birth 
The  sod  scarce  heaved ;  and  that  tall  flower  that 
Its  mother's  face  with  heaven-collected  tears,  [wets 
When  the  low  wind,  its  playmate's  voice,  it  hears. 

And  in  the  warm  hedge  grew  lush  eglantine. 
Green  cow-bind  and  the  moonlight-coloured  May, 

And  cherry  blossoms,  and  white  cups,  whose  wine 
Was  the  bright  dew  yet  drained  not  by  the  day; 

And  wild  roses,  and  ivy  serpentine. 

With  its  dark  buds  and  leaves,  wandering  astray ; 

And  flowers  azure,  black,  and  streaked  with  gold. 

Fairer  than  any  wakened  eyes  behold. 

And  nearer  to  the  river's  trembling  edge 

There  grew  broad  flag-flowers,  purple  prankt  with 

And  starry  river  bu<ls  among  the  sedge,       [white, 
And  floating  water-lilies,  broad  and  bright. 

Which  lit  the  oak  that  overhung  the  hedge 

With  moonlight  beams  of  their  own  watery  light; 

And  bulrushes,  and  reeds  of  such  deep  green 

As  soothed  the  dazzled  eye  with  sober  sheen. 

Methought  that  of  these  visionary  flowers 
I  made  a  nosegay,  bound  in  such  a  way 

That  the  same  hues,  which  in  their  natural  bowers 
Were  mingled  or  opposed,  the  like  array 


292 


POEMS    WRITTEN    IN    1820. 


Kept  these  imprisoned  children  of  the  Hours 

Within  my  hand, — and  then,  elate  and  gay, 
I  hastened  to  the  spot  whence  I  had  come. 
That  I  might  there  present  it ! — Oh !  to  whom  1 


TJIE  T\^'0  SPIRITS. 
AN  ALLEGORY. 

riRST    SPIRIT. 

0  THor,  who  plumed  with  strong  desire 
Wouldi,t  float  above  the  earth,  beware ! 

A  shadow  tracks  thy  flight  of  fire — 

Night  is  jcoming ! 
Bright  are  the  regions  of  the  air, 

And  among  the  winds  and  beams 
It  were  delight  to  wander  there — 
Night  is  coming ! 

SECOND    SPIRIT. 

The  deathless  stars  are  bright  above  : 

If  I  would  cross  the  shade  at  night, 

Within  my  heart  is  the  lamp  of  love, 

And  that  Ls  day  ! 
And  the  moon  will  smile  with  gentle  light 

On  my  golden  plumes  where'er  they  move ; 
The  meteors  will  linger  round  my  flight, 
And  make  night  day. 

FIRST    SPIRIT. 

But  if  the  whirlwinds  of  darkness  waken 
Hail,  and  Ughtning,  and  stormy  rain ; 
See  the  bounds  of  the  air  are  shaken — 

Night  is  coming ! 
The  red  swift  clouds  of  the  hurricane 
Yon  declining  sun  have  overtaken. 
The  clash  of  the  hail  sweeps  over  the  plain — 
Night  is  coming ! 

SECOND     SPIRIT. 

1  see  the  light,  and  I  hear  the  sound ; 

I'll  sail  on  the  flood  of  the  tempest  dark. 
With  the  calm  within  and  the  light  around 

Which  makes  night  day  : 
And  thou,  when  the  gloom  is  deep  and  stark. 

Look  from  thy  dull  earth,  slumber-bound. 
My  moonlight  flight  thou  then  may'st  mark 
On  high,  far  away. 

Some  say  there  is  a  precipice 

Where  one  vast  pine  is  frozen  to  ruin 
O'er  piles  of  snow  and  chasms  of  ice 

'Mid  Alpine  mountains ; 
And  that  the  languid  storm  pursuing 

That  winged  shape,  for  ever  flies 
Round  those  hoar  branches,  aye  renewing 
Its  aery  fountains. 

Some  say  when  nights  are  dry  and  clear. 

And  the  death-dews  sleep  on  the  morass, 
Sweet  whispers  are  heard  by  the  traveller, 

Which  makes  night  day  : 
And  a  silver  shape  like  his  early  love  doth  pass 

Upborne  by  her  wild  and  glittering  hair, 
And  when  he  awakes  on  the  fragrant  grass, 
He  finds  night  day. 


LETTER 

TO  MARIA  GISBORNE.    . 

Leghorn,  July,  1,  1820. 
The  spider  spreads  her  webs,  whether  she  be 
In  poet's  tower,  cellar,  or  barn,  or  tree ; 
The  silkworm  in  the  dark-green  mulberry  leaves 
His  winding-sheet  and  cradle  ever  weaves ! 
So  I,  a  thing  whom  moralists  call  worm. 
Sit  spinning  still  round  this  decaying  form, 
From  the  fine  threads  of  rare  and  subtle  thought — 
No  net  of  words  in  garish  colours  wrought, 
To  catch  the  idle  buzzers  of  the  day — 
But  a  soft  cell,  where,  when  that  fades  away. 
Memory  may  clothe  in  wings  my  living  name 
And  feed  it  with  the  asphodels  of  fame. 
Which  in  those  hearts  which  most  remember  me 
Grow,  making  love  an  immortality. 

Whoever  should  behold  me  now,  I  wist, 

Would  think  I  were  a  mighty  mechanist. 

Bent  with  sublime  Archimedean  art 

To  breathe  a  soul  into  the  iron  heart 

Of  some  machine  portentous,  or  strange  gin, 

W'hich  b}-  the  force  of  figured  spells  might  win 

Its  way  over  the  sea,  and  sport  therein ; 

For  round  the  walls  are  hung  dread  engines,  such 

As  Vulcan  never  wrought  for  Jove  to  clutch 

Ixion  or  the  Titan  : — or  the  quick 

Wit  of  that  man  of  God,  St.  Dominic, 

To  convince  Atheist,  Turk,  or  Heretic ; 

Or  those  in  philosophic  councils  met, 

Who  thought  to  pay  some  interest  for  the  debt 

They  owed  to  Jesus  Christ  for  their  salvation, 

By  gi^^ng  a  faint  foretaste  of  damnation 

To  Shakspeare,  Sidney,. Spenser,  and  the  rest 

Who  made  our  land  an  island  of  the  blest. 

When  lamp-like  Spain,  who  now  relumes  her  fire 

On  Freedom's  hearth,  grew  dim  with  Empire : — 

With  tliumb-screws,  wheels,  with  tooth  and  spilce 

and  jag, 
With  fishes  found  under  the  utmost  crag 
Of  Cornwall,  and  the  storm-encompassed  isles, 
Where  to  the  sky  the  rude  sea  seldom  smiles 
Unless  in  treacherous  wrath,  as  on  the  morn 
When  the  exulting  elements  in  scorn 
Satiated  with  destroyed  destruction,  lay 
Sleeping  in  beauty  on  their  mangled  prey. 
As  panthers  sleep : — and  other  strange  and  dread 
Magical  forms  the  brick-floor  over.spread — 
Proteus  transformed  to  meta!  did  not  make 
More  figures,  or  more  strange ;  nor  did  he  take 
Such  shapes  of  unintelligible  brass. 
Or  heap  himself  in  such  a  horrid  mass 
Of  tin  and  iron  not  to  be  understood. 
And  forms  of  unimaginable  wood. 
To  puzzle  Tubal  Cain  and  all  his  brood  : 
Great  screws,  and  cones,  and  wheels,  and  grooved 

blocks. 
The  elements  of  what  will  stand  the  shocks 
Of  wave  and  wind  and  time. — Upon  the  table 
More  knacks  and  quips  there  be  than  I  am  able 
To  cataloguize  in  this  verse  of  mine : — 
A  pretty  bowl  of  wood — not  full  of  wine, 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


293 


But  quicksilver ;  that  dew  which  the  gnomes  drink 
When  at  their  subterranean  toil  they  swink, 
Pledging  the  demons  of  the  earthquake,  who 
Reply  to  them  in  lava-cry,  halloo ! 
And  call  out  to  the  cities  o'er  their  head, — 
Koofs,  towns,  and  shrines, — the  dying  and  the  dead 
Crash  through  the  chinks  of  earth — and  then  all 

(juair 
Another  rouse,  and  hold  their  sides  and  laugh. 
This  quicksilver  no  gnome  has  drunk — -within 
The  walnut-bowl  it  lies,  veined  and  thin. 
In  colour  like  the  wake  of  light  that  stains 
The  Tuscan  deep,  when  from  the  moist  moon  rains 
The  irunost  shower  of  its  white  fire — the  breeze 
Is  still — blue  heaven  smiles  over  the  pale  seas. 
And  in  this  bowl  of  quicksilver — for  I 
Yield  to  the  impulse  of  an  inlancy 
Outlasting  manhood — I  have  made  to  float 
A  rude  idealism  of  a  paper  boat — 
A  hollow  screw  with  cogs — Henry  will  know 
The  thing  I  mean,  and  laugh  at  me, — if  so 
He  fears  not  I  should  do  more  mischief. — Next 
Lie  bills  and  calculations  much  perplext, 
With  steamboats,  frigates,  and  machinery  quaint 
Traced  over  them  in  blue  and  yellow  paint. 
Then  comes  a  range  of  mathematical 
Instruments,  for  phuis  nautical  and  statical, 
A  heap  of  rosin,  a  green  broken  glass 
With  ink  in  it; — a  china  cup  that  was 
What  it  will  never  be  again,  I  think, 
A  thing  from  which  sweet  lips  were  wont  to  drink 
The  liquor  doctors  rail  at — and  which  I 
Will  quaff  in  spite  of  the;n — and  when  we  die 
We'll  toss  up  who  died  first  of  drinking  tea. 
And  cry  out, — heads  or  tails  ]   where'er  wc  be. 
•  Near  that  a  dusty  paint-box,  some  old  books, 
A  half-burnt  match,  an  ivory  block,  three  books, 
Where  conic  sections,  spherics,  logarithms, 
To  great  Laplace,  from  Saunderson  and  Sims, 
Lie  heaped  in  their  harmonious  disarray 
Of  figures, — disentangle  them  who;may. 
Baron  de  Tott's  Memoirs  beside  them  he, 
And  some  odd  volumes  of  old  chemistry. 
Near  them  a  most  inexplicable  thing, 
With  least  in  the  middle — I'm  conjecturing 
How  to  make  Henry  understand  ; — but — no, 
I'll  leave,  as  Spenser  saj-s,  with  many  mo, 
This  secret  in  the  pregnant  womb  of  time, 
Too  vast  a  matter  for  so  weak  a  rhyme. 

And  here  like  some  weird  Archimage  sit  I, 

Plotting  dark  spells,  and  de^^lish  enginery. 

The  self  impelling  steam-wheels  of  the  mind 

^V'hicll  pump  up  oaths  from  clergymen,  and  grind 

The  gentle  spirit  of  our  meek  reviews 

Into  a  powdery  foam  of  salt  abuse. 

Ruffling  the  ocean  of  their  self-content : — 

I  sit — and  smile  or  sigh  as  is  niy  bent. 

But  not  for  them — Libeecio  rushes  round 

With  an  inconstant  and  an  idle  sound, 

I  heed  him  more  than  them — the  thunder-smoke 

Is  gathering  on  the  mountains,  like  a  cloak 

Folded  athwart  their  shoulders  broad  and  bare ; 

The  ripe  corn  under  the  undulating  air 

Undulates  like  an  ocean ; — 'and  the  ^ines 

Are  trembling  wide  in  all  their  trellised  lines ; — 


The  murmur  of  the  awakening  sea  doth  fill 
The  empty  pauses  of  the  blast  ; — the  hill 
Looks  hoary  through  the  white  electric  rain. 
And  from  the  glens  beyond,  in  sullen  strain 
The  interrupted  thunder  howls;  above 
One  chasm  of  heaven  smiles,  like  the  eye  of  love 
On  the  un<iuiet  world ; — while  such  things  are, 
How  could  one  worth  your  friendship  heed  the  war 
Of  worms  ?   The  shriek  of  the  world's  carrion  jays, 
Their  censure,  or  their  wonder,  or  their  praise  1 

You  are  not  here  !  The  quaint  witch  Memory  sees 
In  vacant  chairs  your  absent  images. 
And  points  where  once  you  sat,  and  now  should  be, 
But  are  not. — I  demand  if  ever  we 
Shall  meet  as  then  we  met ; — and  she  replies, 
Veiling  in  awe  her  second-sighted  eyes, 
"  I  know  the  past  alone — but  summon  home 
My  sister  Hope,  she  speaks  of  all  to  come." 
But  I,  an  old  diviner,  who  know  well 
Every  false  verse  of  that  sweet  oracle. 
Turned  to  the  sad  encha"ntress  once  again. 
And  sought  a  respite  from  my  gentle  pain, 
In  acting  every  passage  o'er  and  o'er 
Of  our  communion. — How  on  the  sea-shore 
We  watched  the  ocean  and  the  sky  together, 
Under  the  roof  of  blue  Italian  weather ; 
Howl  ran  home  through  last  year's  thunder-storm, 
And  felt  the  transverse  lightning  linger  warm 
Upon  my  cheek :  and  how  we  often  made 
Treats  for  each  other,  where  good  will  outweighed 
The  frugal  luxury  of  our  country  cheer. 
As  it  well  might,  were  it  less  firm  and  clear 
Than  ours  must  ever  be  ; — and  how  we  spun 
A  shroud  of  talk  to  hide  us  from  the  sun 
Of  this  familiar  life,  which  seems  to  be 
But  is  not, — or  is  but  quaint  mockery 
Of  all  we  would  beheve;  or  sadly  blame 
The  jarring  and  inexplicable  frame 
(^f  this  wrong  world : — and  then  anatomize 
The  purposes  and  thoughts  of  men  whose  eyes 
Were  closed  in  distant  years ; — or  widely  guess 
The  issue  of  the  earth's  great  business. 
When  we  shall  be  as  we  no  longer  are  ; 
Like  babbling  gossips  safe,  who  hear  the  war 
Of  winds,  and  sigh,  but  tremble  not ;  or  how 
You  hstened  to  some  interrupted  flow 
Of  visionary  rhyme ; — in  joy  and  pain 
Struck  from  the  inmost  fountains  of  my  brain, 
With  httle  skill  perhaps; — or  how  we  sought 
Those  deepest  wells  of  passion  or  of  thought 
Wrought  by  wise  poets  in  the  waste  of  years, 
Staining  the  sacred  waters  with  our  tears ; 
Quenching  a  thirst  ever  to  be  renewed  ! 
Or  how  I,  wisest  lady  !  then  indued 
The  language  of  a  land  which  now  is  free, 
And  winged  with  thoughts  of  truth  andjnajesty. 
Flits  round  the  tyrant's  sceptre  like  a  cloud. 
And  bursts  the  peopled  prisons,  and  cries  aloud, 
"  My  name  is  Legion !" — that  majestic  tongue. 
Which  Calderon  over  the  desert  flung 
Of  ages  and  of  nations ;  and  which  found 
An  echo  in  our  hearts,  and  with  the  sound 
Startled  oblivion ; — thou  wert  then  to  me 
As  is  a  nurse — when  inarticulately 
2b2 


294 


POEMS    WRITTEN    lA    18  2  0. 


A  child  would  talk  as  its  gro\vn  parents  do. 

If  living  winds  the  rapid  clouds  pursue, 

If  hawks  chase  doves  lliroui;h  the  aerial  way, 

Huntsmen  the  innocent  deor,  and  heasts  their  prey, 

Why  should  not  wc  rouse  with  the  spirit's  blast 

Out  of  the  forest  of  the  pathless  past 

These  recollected  pleasures  ] 

You  are  now 
111  London,  that  great  sea,  whose  ebb  and  flow 
At  once  is  deaf  and  loud,  and  on  the  shore 
Vomits  its  wrecks,  and  still  howls  on  for  more. 
Yet  in  its  depth  what  treasures !  You  will  sec 
Your  old  friend  Godwin,  greater  none  than  he  ; 
Though  fallen  on  evil  times,  yet  will  he  stand, 
Among  the  spirits  of  our  age  and  land, 
Before  the  dread  tribunal  of  To-come 
The  foremost,  whilst  rebuke  stands  pale  and  dumb. 
You  will  see  Coleridge ;  he  who  sits  obscure 
In  the  exceeding  lustre  and  the  pure 
Intense  irradiation  of  a  mind, 
Which,  with  its  own  internal  lustre  blind, 
Flags  wearily  through  darkness  and  despair — 
A  cloud-encircled  meteor  of  the  air, 
A  hooded  eagle  among  the  blinking  owls. 
Y'ou  will  see  Hunt ;  one  of  those  happy  souls 
Which  are  the  salt  of  the  earth,  and  without  whom 
This  world  would  smell  like  what  it  is  a  tomb ; 
Who  is,  what  others  seem : — 'his  room  no  doubt 
Is  still  adorned  by  many  a  cast  from  Shout, 
With  graceful  flowers,  tastefully  placed  about ; 
And  coronals  of  bay  from  ribbons  hung, 
And  brighter  WTcaths  in  neat  disorder  flung, 
The  gifts  of  the  most  learned  among  some  dozens 
Of  female  friends,  sisters-in-law  and  cousins. 
And  there  he  is  with  his  eternal  puns, 
Which  beat  the  dullest  brain  for  smiles,  like  duns 
Thundering  for  money  at  a  poet's  door ; 
Alas!  it  is  no  use  to  say,  "I'm  poor!" 
Or  oft  in  graver  mood,  when  he  will  look 
Things  wiser  than  were  ever  said  in  book, 
Except  in  Shakspcare's  wisest  tenderness. 
You  will  see  H — ■,  and  I  cannot  express 
His  virtues,  though  I  know  that  they  are  great, 
Because  he  locks,  then  barricades,  the  gate 
Within  which  they  inhabit; — of  his  wit. 
And  wisdom,  you'll  cry  out  when  you  are  bit. 
He  is  a  pearl  witliin  an  oyster  shell. 
One  of  the  richest  of  the  deep.     And  there 
Is  English  P —  with  his  mountain  Fair 
Turned  into  a  Flamingo, — that  shy  bird 
That  gleams  i'  the  Indiafi  air.  Have  you  not  heard 
When  a  man  marries,  dies,  or  turns  Hindoo, 
His  best  friends  hear  no  more  of  him  ?   but  you 
Will  see  him,  and  will  like  him  too,  I  hope, 
With  the  milkwhite  Snowdonian  Antelope 
Matched  with  his  camelopard  his  fine  wit 
Makes  such  a  wound,  the  knife  is  lost  in  it; 
A  strain  too  learned  for  a  shallow  age. 
Too  wise  for  selfish  bigots; — let  his  page. 
Which  charms  the  chosen  sjjirits  of  the  time, 
Folds  itself  up  for  a  screncr  clime 
Of  years  to  come,  and  find  its  recompense 
In  tliat  just  expectation.     Wit  and  sense. 
Virtue  and  human  knowledge,  all  that  might 
Make  this  dull  world  a  business  of  delicjht. 


All  are  combined  in  Horace  Smith. — And  these, 
With  some  exceptions,  which  I  need  not  tease 
\  our  patience  by  descanting  on,  are  all 
You  and  I  know  in  London. 

I  recall 
M}'  thoughts,  and  bid  you  look  upon  the  night ; 
As  water  docs  a  sponge,  so  the  moonlight 
Fills  the  void,  hollow,  universal  air. 
What  see  you  ] — Unpavilioned  heaven  is  fair, 
Whether  the  moon,  into  her  chamber  gone. 
Leaves  midnight  to  the  golden  stars,  or  wan 
Climbs  with  diminished  beams  the  azure  steep; 
Or  whether  clouds  sail  o'er  the  inverse  deep, 
Piloted  by  the  many-wandering  blast 
And  the  rare  stars  rush  through  them,  dim  and 

fast. 
All  this  is  beautiful  in  ever}'  land. 
But  what  see  you  beside  ?   A  shabby  stand 
Of  hackney-coaches — a  brick  house  or  wall 
Fencing  some  lonely  court,  white  with  the  scrawl 
Of  our  unhappy  politics ; — or  worse — 
A  wretched  woman  reeling  by,  whose  curse 
Mixed  with  the  watchman's,  partner  of  her  trade, 
You  must  accept  in  place  of  serenade — 
Or  yellow-haired  Pollonia  murmuring 
To  Henry,  some  unutterable  thing. 

I  see  a  chaos  of  green  leaves  and  fruit 

Built  round  dark  caverns,  even  to  the  root 

Of  the  living  stems  who  feed  them;   in  whose 

bowers 
There  sleep  in  their  dark  dew  the  folded  flowers ; 
Beyond,  the  surface  of  the  unsickled  corn 
Trembles  not  in  the  slumbering  air,  and  borne 
In  circles  quaint,  and  ever-changing  dance. 
Like  winged  stars  the  fireflies  flash  and  glance 
Pale  in  the  open  moonshine ;  but  each  one 
Under  the  dark  trees  seems  a  little  sun, 
A  meteor  tamed  ;  a  fixed  star  gone  astray 
From  the  silver  regions  of  the  MiUcy-way. 
Afar  the  Contadino's  song  is  heard, 
Rude,  but  made  sweet  by  distance ; — and  a  bird 
AMiich  cannot  be  a  nightingale,  and  yet 
i  know  none  else  that  sings  so  sweet  as  it 
At  this  late  hour ; — and  then  all  is  still : — ■ 
Now  Italy  or  London,  which  you  will  I 

Next  winter  you  must  pass  with  me ;  I'll  have 
My  house  by  that  time  turned  into  a  grave 
Of  dead  despondence  and  low  thoughted  care, 
And  all  the  dream  which  our  tormentors  are. 

O  that  Hunt  and were  there, 

M'ith  every  thing  belonging  to  them  fair  ! — 

We  will  have  books;  Spanish,  Italian,  Greek, 

And  ask  one  week  to  make  another  week 

As  like  his  father,  as  I'm  unlike  mine. 

Thouah  we  cat  little  flesh  and  drink  no  wine, 

Yet  let's  be  merry  ;  we'll  have  tea  and  toast ; 

Custards  for  supper,  and  an  endless  host 

Of  syllabubs  and  jellies  and  mince-pies, 

And  other  such  lady-like  luxuries, — 

Feasting  on  which  we  will  philosophize. 

And  we'll   have  fires  out    of    the  Grand  Duke's 

wood. 
To  thaw  the  six  weeks'  winter  in  our  blood. 


M  1 8  C  E  L  L  A  N  E  O  U  S. 


295 


And  then  we'll  talk ; — what  shall  we  talk  about  7 
Oh !  there  arc  themes  enough  for  many  a  bout 
Of  thought-rntanslcd  descant;  as  to  ncncs 
With  cones  and  parallelograms  and  curves, 
I've  sworn  to  strangle  them  if  once  they  dare 
To  bother  me, — when  you  are  with  me  there. 
Anil  they  shall  never  more  sip  laudanum 
From  Helicon  or  Himeros  ;* — well,  come, 
And  in  spite  of  *   *   *   and  of  the  devil. 
Will  make  our  friendly  philoso})hic  revel 
Outlast  the  leafless  time; — till  buds  and  flowers 
Warn  tiie  obscure  inevitable  hours 
Sweet  meeting  by  sad  parting  to  renew  : — 
"  To-morrow  to  fresh  woods  and  pastures  new." 


TO  MARY, 

(ON    UER   OBJECTING   TO  THE   FOLLOWING    POEM,     UPON 
THE  SCORE  OF  ITS  CONTA  ININO  NO  HVllAN   INTEUEST.) 


How,  my  dear  Mary,  are  you  critic-bitten, 

(For  vipers  kill,  though  dead.)  by  some  review. 

That  you  condemn  these  verses  I  have  written, 
Because  they  tell  no  story  false  or  true  ! 

What,  though  no  mice  are  caught  by  a  young  kitten, 
May  it  not  leap  and  play  as  gi-own  cats  do. 

Till  its  claws  come  1     Prithee,  for  this  one  time, 

Content  thee  with  a  visionary  rhyme. 


What  hand  would  crush  the  silken-winged  fly. 
The  youngest  of  inconstant  April's  niiniolis. 

Because  it  cannot  climb  the  purest  sky, 

W^here  the  swan  sings,  amid  the  sun's  dominions  ] 

Not  tliine.     Thou  knowest  'tis  its  doom  to  die. 
When  day  shall  hide  within  her  twilight  pinions 

The  lucent  eyes,  and  the  eternal  smile. 

Serene  as  thine,  wliich  lent  it  life  awhile. 


To  thy  fair  feet  a  winged  Vision  came. 

Whose  date  should  have  been  longer  than  a  day. 

And  o'er  thy  head  did  beat  its  wings  for  fame. 
And  in  thy  sight  its  fading  plumes  display ; 

The  watery  bow  burned  in  the  evening  flame. 
But  the  shower  fell,  the  swift  Sun  went  his  w-ay — 

And  that  is  dead. 0,  let  me  not  believe 

That  any  thing  of  mine  is  lit  to  live  ! 


Wordsworth  informs  us  he  was  nineteen  )-ears 
Considering  and  retouching  Peter  Bell ; 

Watering  his  laurels  with  the  killing  tears 
Of  slow,  dull  care,  so  that  their  roots  to  hell 

Might  pierce,  and  their  wide  branches   blot  the 

spheres  [well 

Of  heaven,  with  dewy  leaves  and  flowers ;  this 

May  be,  for  Heaven  and  Earth  conspirfi  to  foil 

The  over-busy  gardener's  blundering  toil. 

*  "l/(fpoj,  from  which  the  river  Himera  was  named, 
is,  with  some  slight  shade  of  difference  a  synonyme  of 
Love. 


My  Witch  indeed  is  not  so  sweet  a  creature 
As  Ruth  or  Lucy,  whom  his  graceful  praise 

Clothes  for  our  grandsons — but  she  matches  Peter, 
Though  he  took  nineteen  years,  and  she  three 
days 

In  dressing.     Light  the  vest  of  flowing  metre 
She  wears ;  he,  proud  as  dandy  with  his  stays. 

Has  hung  upon  his  wiry  limbs  a  dress 

Like  King  Lear's  "  looped  and  windowed  ragged- 
ness." 

VT. 

If  you  strip  Pctor,  you  will  sec  a  fellow. 
Scorched  by  Hell's  hyperecjuatorial  climate 

Into  a  kind  of  a  sulphureous  yellow : 

A  lean  mark,  hardly  fit  to  fling  a  rhyme  at ; 

In  shape  a  Scaramouch,  in  hue  Othello, 

If  you  unveil  my  Witch,  no  priest  nor  primate 

Can  shrive  j'ou  of  that  sin, — if  sin  there  be 

In  love,  when  it  becomes  idolatry. 


THE  WITCH  OF  ATLAS. 


Bkfore  those  cruel  Twins,  whom  at  one  birth 
Incestuous  Change  bore  to  her  father  Time, 

Error  and  truth,  had  hunted  from  the  earth 

All   those    bright  natures   which   adorned  its 
prime. 

And  left  us  nothing  to  believe  in,  worth 
The  pains  of  putting  into  learned  rhj'me, 

A  lady-witch  there  lived  on  Atlas'  mountain 

\^'ithin  a  cavern  by  a  secret  fountain. 

II. 

Her  mother  was  one  of  the  Atlantides : 
The  all  beholding  Sun  had  ne'er  beholden 

In  his  wide  voyage  o'er  continents  and  seas 
So  fair  a  creature,  as  she  lay  enfolden 

In  the  warm  shadow  of  her  loveliness  ; — 

He   kissed  her  with  his  beams,  and  made  all 
golden 

The  chamber  of  graj-  rOck  in  which  she  lay — 

She,  in  that  dream  of  joy,  dissolved  away. 


'Tis  said,  she  was  first  changed  into  a  vapour, 
And  then  into  a  cloud,  such  clouds  as  flit, 

Like  splendour-winged  moths  about  a  taper. 
Round  the  red  west  when  the  sun  dies  in  it  : 

And  then  into  a  meteor,  such  as  caper 
On  hill-tops  when  the  moon  is  in  a  fit; 

Then,  into  one  of  those  mysterious  stars 

Which   hide  themselves  between  the  Earth  and 
Mars. 


Ten  times  the  Mother  of  the  I\Ionths  had  bent 
Her  bow  beside  the  folding-star,  and  bidden 

With  that  bright  sign  the  billows  to  indent 
The  sea-deserted  sand  :  like  children  chidden, 


296 


POEMS    WRITTEN    IN    18  20. 


At  her  command  they  ever  came  and  went : — 

Since  in  that  cave  a  dewy  splendour  hidden, 

Took  shape  and  motion  :  with  the  hving  form 

Of  this  embodied  Power,  the  cave  grew  warm. 


A  lovely  lady  garmented,  in  light 

From  her  own  beauty — deep  her  eyes,  as  are 
Two  openings  of  unfathomable  night 

Seen  through  a  tempest's  cloven  roof; — her  hair 
Dark — the  dim  brain  whirls  dizzy  with  delight. 

Picturing  her  form  ; — her  soft  smiles  shone  afar, 
And  her  low  voice  was  heard  like  love,  and  drew 
All  living  things  towards  this  wonder  new. 


And  first  the  spotted  camelopard  came, 
And  then  the  wise  and  fearless  elephant ; 

Then  the  sly  serpent,  in  the  golden  flame 
Of  his  own  volumes  intervolved ; — all  gaunt 

And  sanguine  beasts  her  gentle  looks  made  tame. 
Thej^  drank  before  her  at  her  sacred  fount ; 

And  every  beast  of  beating  heart  grew  bold, 

Such  gentleness  and  power  even  to  behold. 


The  brinded  lioness'lcd  forth  her  young. 

That  she  might  teach  them  how  they  should  forego 

Their  inborn  thirst  of  death ;  the  pard  unstrung 
His  sinews  at  her  feet,  and  sought  to  know 

With  looks  whose  motions  spoke  without  a  tongue 
How  he  might  be  as  gentle  as  the  doe. 

The  magic  circle  of  her  voice  and  eyes 

All  savage  natures  did  imparadise. 


^nd  old  Silenus,  shaking  a  green  stick 
Of  lilies,  and  the  wood-gods  in  a  crew 

Came,  blithe,  as  in  the  olive  copses  thick 
Cicadaj  are,  drunk  with  the  noonday  dew  : 

And  Driope  and  Faunus  followed  quick, 

Teazing  the  God  to  sing  them  something  new, 

Till  in  this  cave  they  found  the  lady  lone, 

Sitting  upon  a  seat  of  emerald  stone. 


And  universal  Pan,  'tis  said,  was  there. 

And  though  none  saw  him, — through  the  adamant 

Of  the  deep  mountains,  through  the  trackless  air, 
And  through  those  hving  spirits,  like  a  want, 

He  passed  oijt  of  his  everlasting  lair 

Where  the  quick  heart  of  the  great  world  doth 

And  felt  that  wondrous  lady  all  alone, — •         [pant 

And  she  felt  him  upon  her  emerald  throne. 


And  every  nymph  of  stream  and  spreading  tree. 
And  every  shepherdess  of  Ocean's  flocks, 

Who  drives  her  wliite  waves  over  the  green  sea. 
And  Ocean,  willi  the  brine  on  his  gray  locks. 

And  quaint  Priapus  with  his  company,         [rocks 
All  came  much  wondering  how  the  enwombed. 

Could  have  brought  forth  so  Iteautiful  a  birth ; — 

Her  love  subdued  theu"  wonder  and  their  mirth. 


The  herdsmen  and  the  mountain  maidens  came. 
And  the  rude  kings  of  pastoral  Garamant — • 

Their  spirits  shook  within  them  as  a  flame 
Stirred  by  the  air  under  a  cavern  gaunt : 

Pigmies  and  Polyphemcs,  by  many  a  name. 
Centaurs  and  Satyrs,  and  such  shapes  as  haunt 

Wet  clefts, — and  lumps  neither  alive  nor  dead, 

Dog-headed,  bosom-eyed,  and  bird-footed. 

XIT. 

For  she  was  beautiful :  her  beauty  made 

The  bright  world  dim,  and  every  thing  beside 

Seemed  like  the  fleeting  image  of  a  shade  : 
No  thought  of  hving  spirit  could  abide. 

Which  to  her  looks  had  ever  been  betrayed, 
On  any  object  in  the  world  so  wide. 

On  any  hope  within  the  circling  skies. 

But  on  her  form,  and  in  her  inmost  eyes. 

XIII. 

Which  when  the  lady  knew,  she  took  her  spindle 
And  twined  three  threads  of  fleecy  mist,  and  three 

Long  lines  of  light,  such  as  the  dawn  may  kindle 
The  clouds  andwaves  and  mountains  with,  and  sie 

As  many  starbeams,  ere  the  lamps  could  dwindle 
In  the  belated  moon,  wound  skilfully  ; 

And  with  these  threads  a  subtle  veil  she  wove — 

A  shadow  for  the  splendour  of  her  love. 

XIT. 

The  deep  recesses  of  her  odorous  dwelling 

Were  stored  with  magic  treasures — sounds  of  air, 

Which  had  the  power  all  spirits  of  compelluig. 
Folded  in  cells  of  crystal  silence  there; 

Such  as  we  hear  in  youth,  and  think  the  feeling 
Will  never  die — ^yet  ere  we  are  aware, 

The  feeling  and  the  sound  are  fled  and  gone. 

And  the  regret  they  leave  remains  alone. 

XV. 

And  there  lay  visions  swifl,  and  sweet,  and  quaint 
Each  in  its  thin  sheath  like  a  chrj'salis ; 

Some  eager  to  hurst  forth,  some  weak  and  faint 
With  the  sofl  burden  of  intensest  bliss  : 

It  is  its  work  to  bear  to  many  a  saint 

Whose  heart  adores  the  shrine  which  holiest  is. 

Even  Love's — and  others  white,  green,  graj',  and 

And  of  all  shapes — and  each  was  ather  beck,  ^black, 

XVI. 

And  odours  in  a  kind  of  aviary 

Of  ever-blooming  Eden-trees  she  kept, 

Clipt  in  a  floating  net,  a  lovesick  Fairy 

Had  woven  from  dew-beaius  while  the  moon  yet 

As  bats  at  the  wired  window  of  a  daily,       [slept ; 
They  beat  their  vans;  and  each  was  an  adept, 

When  loosed  and  missioned,  making  wings  of  winds, 

To  stir  sweet  thoughts  or  sad,  m  destined  minds. 

XVII. 

And  liqiiors  clear  and  sweet,  whose  healthful  might 
Could  medicine  the  sick  soul  to  happy  sleep. 

And  change  eternal  death  into  a  night 

Of  glorious  dreams — or  if  eyes  needs  must  weep 

Could  make  their  tears  all  wonder  and  delight. 
She  in  her  ci-ystal  vials  did  closely  keep : 

If  men  could  drink  of  those  clear  vials,  'tis  said 

The  hving  were  not  envied  of  the  dead. 


THE    WITCH    OF    ATLAS. 


297 


xyiii. 

Her  cave  was  stored  witli  scrolls  of  strange  device, 
The  works  of  some  Saturnjaii  Archimage, 

Which  taught  the  expiations  at  whose  price 
Men  from  the  Gods  might  win  that  happy  age 

Too  lightly  lost,  redeeming  native  vice ;  [rage 

And  which  inight  quench  the  earth  consuming 

Of  gold  and  blood — till  men  should  live  and  move 

Harmonious  as  the  sacred  stars  above. 

XIX. 

And  how  all  things  that  seem  untameable, 
Not  to  be  checked  and  not  to  be  confined, 

Obey  the  spells  of  wisdom's  wizard  skill ; 

Time,  Earth,  and  Fire — the  Ocean  and  the  Wind, 

And  all  their  shapes — and  man's  imperial  will ; 
And  other  scrolls  whose  writings  did  unbind 

The  inmost  lore  of  Love — let  the  profane 

Tremble  to  ask  what  secrets  they  contain. 

XX. 

And  wondrous  works  of  substances  unknown. 
To  which  the  enchantment  of  her  father's  power 

Had  changed  those  ragged  blocks  of  savage  stone, 
Were  heaped  in  the  recesses  of  her  bower ; 

Oarv'ed  lamps  and  chalices,  and  phials  which  shone 
In  their  own  golden  beams — each  like  a  flower. 

Out  of  whose  depth  a  firefly  shakes  his  light 

Under  a  cypress  in  a  starless  night. 

xxr. 

At  first  she  lived  alone  in  this  wild  home, 
And  her  thoughts  were  each  a  minister. 

Clothing  themselves  or  with  the  ocean-foam, 
Or  with  the  wind,  or  with  the  speed  of  fire, 

To  work  whatever  purposes  might  come 

Into  her  mind :  such  power  her  mighty  Sire 

Had  girt  them  with,  whether  to  fly  or  run. 

Through  all  the  regions  which  he  shines  upon. 

XXII. 

The  Ocean-nymphs  and  Hamadryades, 

Oreads  and  Naiads  with  long  weedy  locks, 

Oflfered  to  do  her  bidding  through  the  seas. 
Under  the  earth,  and  in  the  hollow  rocks, 

And  far  beneath  the  matted  roots  of  trees. 
And  in  the  gnarled  heart  of  stubborn  oaks, 

So  the}'  might  live  for  ever  in  the  light 

Of  her  sweet  presence — each  a  satellite. 

XXIII. 

«  This  may  not  be,"  the  wizard  maid  replied; 

"  The  fountains  where  the  Naiads  bedew 
Their  shining  hair,  at  length  are  drained  and  dried  ; 

The  solid  oaks  forget  their  strength,  and  strew 
Their  latest  leaf  upon  the  mountains  wide  ; 

The  boundless  ocean,  like  a  drop  of  dew 
Will  be  consumed — the  stubborn  centre  must 
Be  scattered,  like  a  cloud  of  summer  dust. 

XXIV. 

"And  ye  with  them  will  perish  one  by  one: 
If  I  must  sigh  to  think  that  this  shall  be. 

If  I  must  weep  when  the  surviving  Sun 

Shall  smile  on  your  decay — Oh,  ask  not  me 

To  love  you  till  your  little  race  is  run ; 

I  cannot  die  as  ye  must — over  me        [ye  dwell 

Your  leaves   shall  glance — the  streams  in  which 

Shall  be  my  paths  henceforth,  and  so  farewell  I" 

3S 


She  spoke  and  wept :  the  dark  and  azure  well 
Sparkled  beneath  the  shower  of  her  bright  tears. 

And  every  little  circlet  where  they  fell. 

Flung  to  \hc  cavern-roof  inconstant  spheres 

And  intcrtangled  lines  of  light : — a  knell 
Of  sobbing  voices  came  upon  her  ears 

From  those  departing  Forms,  o'er  the  serene 

Of  the  white  streams  and  of  the  forest  green. 

XXVI. 

All  day  the  wizard  lady  sat  aloof. 

Spelling  out  scrolls  of  dread  antiquity. 

Under  the  cavern's  fountain-lighted  roof; 
Or  broidering  the  pictured  poesy 

Of  some  high  tale  upon  her  growing  woof 

Which  the  sweet  splendour  of  her  smiles  could  dye 

In  hues  outshining  heaven — and  ever  she 

Added  some  grace  to  the  wrought  poesy. 

XXVII. 

While  on  lier  hearth  lay  blazing  many  a  piece 
Of  sandal-wood,  rare  gums,  and  cinnamon  ; 

Men  scarcely  know  how  beautiful  fire  is. 
Each  flame  of  it  is  as  a  precious  stone 

Dissolved  in  ever-moving  fight,  and  this 
Belongs  to  each  and  all  who  gaze  upon 

The  Witch  beheld  it  not,  for  in  her  hand 

She  held  a  woof  that  dimmed  the  burnuig  brand. 

XXVIII. 

This  lady  never  slept,  but  lay  in  trance 
All  night  within  the  fountain — as  in  sleep. 

Its  emerald  crags  glowed  in  her  beautj's  glance  : 
Through  the  green  splendour  of  the  water  deep 

She  saw  the  constellations  reel  and  dance 
Like  fireflies — and  withal  did  ever  keep 

The  tenor  of  her  contemplations  calm. 

With  open  eyes,  closed'  feet,  and  folded  palm. 

XXIX. 

And  when  the  whirlwinds  and  the  clouds  descended 
From  the  white  pinnacles  of  that  cold  hill, 

She  passed  at  dewfall  to  a  space  extended. 
Where,  in  a  lawn  of  flowering  asphodel 

Amid  a  wood  of  pines  and  cedars  blended. 
There  yawned  an  inextinguishable  well 

Of  crimson  fire,  full  even  to  the  brim. 

And  overflowing  all  the  margin  trim. 

XXX. 

Witliin  the  which  she  lay  when  the  fierce  war 
Of  wintry  winds  shook  that  innocuous  liquor 

In  many  a  mimic  moon  and  bearded  star. 

O'er  woods  and  lawns — the  serpent  heard  it  flicker 

In  sleep,  and  dreaming  still,  he  crept  afar — 

And  when  the  windless  snow  descended  thicker 

Than  autumn  leaves,  she  watched  it  as  it  came 

Melt  on  the  surface  of  the  level  flame. 

XXXI. 

She  had  a  Boat  which  some  say  Vulcan  wrought 
For  Venus,  as  the  chariot  of  her  star ; 

But  it  was  found  too  feeble  to  be  fi"aught 

With  all  the  ardours  in  that  sphere  which  are. 

And  so  she  sold  it,  and  Apollo  bought 
And  gave  it  to  this  daughter :  from  a  car 

Changed  to  the  fairest  and  the  lightest  boat 

Which  ever  upon  mortal  stream  did  float 


293 


POEMS    AVRITTEN    IN    18  2  0. 


XXXII. 

'    Anvl  others  say,  that,  when  Imt  three  hours  olJ, 
The  first-horn  Love  out  of  his  cradle  leapt. 

And  clove  dun  Chaos  with  Iiis  wings  of  gold. 
And  hke  a  horticultural  adept, 

Stole  a  strange  seed,  and  wrapt  it  up  in  mould, 
And  sowed  it  in  his  mother's  star,  and  kept 

Watering  it  all  the  summer  with  sweet  dew, 

And  with  his  wings  funning  it  as  it  grew. 

XXXIII. 

The  plant  grew  strong  and  green — the  snowj'  flower 
Fell,  and  the  long  and  gourd-like  fruit  hegan 

To  turn  the  light  and  dew  by  inward  power 
To  its  own  substance :  woven  tracery  ran 

Of  light  firm  texture,  ribbed  and  branching,  o'er 
The  solid  rind,  like  a  leaf's  veined  fan, 

Of  which  Love  scooped  this  boat,  and  with  soft 

Piloted  it  round  the  circumfluous  ocean,    [motion 

xxxir. 

This  boat  she  moored  upon  her  fount,  and  lit 

A  living  spirit  within  all  its  frame. 
Breathing  the  soul  of  swiftness  into  it. 

Couched  on  the  fountain  like  a  panther  tame, 
One  of  the  twain  at  Evan's  feet  that  sit ; 

Or  as  on  Vesta's  sceptre  a  swift  flame, 
Or  on  bHnd  Homer's  heart  a  winged  thought, — 
In  joyous  expectation  lay  the  boat. 

XXXT. 

Then  by  strange  art  she  kneaded  fire  and  snow 
Together,  tempering  the  repugnant  mass 

With  liquid  love — 'all  things  together  grow 
Through  which  the  harmony  of  love  can  pass ; 

And  a  fair  Shape  out  of  her  hands  did  flow 
A  linng  Image,  which  did  far  surpass 

In  beauty  that  bright  shape  of  vital  stone 

Which  drew  the  heart  of  Pygmalion. 

xxxri. 

A  sexless  thing  it  was,  and  in  its  growth 
It  seemed  to  have  developed  no  defect 

Of  either  sex,  yet  all  the  grace  of  both, — 

In  gentleness  and  strength  its  limbs  were  decked; 

The  bosom  lightly  swelled  with  its  full  youth, 
The  countenance  was  such  as  might  select 

Some  artist  that  his  skill  should  never  die. 

Imaging  forth  such  perfect  purity. 

XXXTII. 

From  its  smooth  shoulders  hung  two  rapid  wungs. 
Fit  to  have  borne  it  to  the  seventh  sphere, 

Tipt  with  the  speed  of  liquid  lightenings. 
Died  in  the  ardours  of  the  atmosphere : 

She  led  her  creature  to  the  boiling  springs 

Where  the  light  boat  was  moored,  and  said — *^  Sit 

And  pointed  to  the  prow,  and  took  her  seat  [here  !" 

Beside  the  rudder  with  opposing  feet. 

XXXVIII. 

And  down  the  streams  which  clove  those  mountains 
Around  their  inland  islets,  and  amid  [vast 

The  panther-peopled  forests,  whose  shade  cast 
Darkness  and  odours,  and  a  pleasure  hid 

In  melancholy  gloom,  the  pinnace  passed; 
By  many  a  star-surrounded  pyramid 

Of  icy  crag  cleaving  the  purple  sky, 

And  caverns  yawning  round  unfathoraably. 


XXXIX. 

The  silver  noon  into  that  winding  dell. 

With  slanted  gleam  athwart  the  forest  tops, 

Tempered  like  golden  evening,  feebly  fell ; 

A  green  and  glowing  fight,  like  that  which  drops 

From  folded  lilies  in  which  glowworms  dwell. 
When  earth  over  her  face  night's  mantle  wraps ; 

Betivcen  the  severed  mountains  lay  on  high 

Over  the  stream,  a  narrow  rift  of  sky. 

XL. 

And  ever  as  she  went,  the  Image  lay 

With  folded  wings  and  unawakened  eyes ; 

And  o'er  its  gentle  countenance  did  play 
The  busy  dreams,  as  thick  as  summer  flies, 

Chasing  the  rapid  smiles  that  would  not  stay. 
And  drinking  the  warm  tears,  and  the  sweet  sighs 

Inhaling,  which,  with  busy  murmur  vain. 

They  had  aroused  from  that  full  heart  and  brain. 

XLI. 

And  ever  down  the  prone  vale,  like  a  cloud 
Upon  a  stream  of  wind,  the  pinnace  went : 

Now  lingering  on  the  pools,  in  which  abode 
The  calm  and  darkness  of  the  deep  content 

In  which  they  paused  ;  now  o'er  the  shallow  road 
Of  white  and  dancing  waters,  all  besprent 

With  sand  and  polished  pebbles: — mortal  boat 

In  such  a  shallow  rapid  could  not  float. 

XT,II. 

And  down  the  earthquaking  cataracts  which  shiver 
Their  snowlike  waters  into  golden  air, 

Or  under  chasms  unfathomable  ever 

Sepulchre  them,  till  in  their  rage  they  tear 

A  suliteiTanean  porUil  for  the  river. 

It  fled — the  circling  sunbows  did  upbear 

Its  fall  down  the  hoar  precipice  of  spray, 

Lighting  it  far  upon  its  lampless  way. 

XXLIII. 

And  when  the  wizard  lady  would  ascend 
The  labyrinths  of  some  many-winding  vale. 

Which  to  the  inmost  mountain  upward  tent! — • 
She  called  "Hermaphroditus !"  and  the  pale 

And  heavy  hue  which  slumber  could  extend     < 

Over  its  lips  and  eyes,  as  on  the  gale 

A  rapid  shadow  from  a  slope  of  grass. 

Into  the  darkness  of  the  stream  did  pass. 

XLIV. 

And  it  unfurled  its  heaven-coloured  pinions, 
With  stars  of  fire  spotting  the  stream  below ; 

And  from  above  into  the  sun's  dominions 

Flinging  a  glorj-,  like  the  golden  glow  [minions. 

In    which    spring    clothes    her    emerald-winged 
All  interwoven  with  fine  feathery  snow 

And  moonlight  sj)lendour  of  intensest  rime. 

With  which  frost  paints  the  pines  in  winter  time. 

XI.T. 

And  then  it  winnowed  the  Elysian  air 
Which  ever  hung  about  that  lady  bright. 

With  its  ethereal  vans — and  speeding  there, 
Like  a  star  up  the  torrent  of  the  night 

Or  a  swift  eagle  in  the  morning  glare 

Breasting  the  whirlwind  with  impetuous  flight ; 

The  pinnace,  oared  by  those  enchanted  wings, 

Clove  the  fierce  streams  to^^■ards  their  upper  springs. 


THE    WITCH    OF    ATLAS. 


299 


The  water  Hashed  hkc  sunhght  by  the  prow 
Of  a  noon-wandering  meteor  flung  to  Heaven  ; 

The  still  air  seemed  as  if  its  waves  did  How 

In  tempest  down  the  mountains, — loosely  driven 

The  lady's  radiant  hair  streamed  to  and  fro ; 
Beneath,  the  billows  having  vainly  striven 

Indignant  and  impetuous,  roared  to  feel 

The  swill  and  steady  motion  of  the  keel. 

XLVII. 

Or,  when  the  weary  moon  was  in  the  wane, 
Or  in  the  noon  of  interlunar  night,    . 

The  lady-witch  in  visions  eould  not  chain 
Her  spirit ;  but  sailed  forth  under  the  light 

Of  shooting  stars,  and  bade  extend  amain 

His  storm-outspeeding  wings,  th'  Hermaphrodite ; 

She  to  the  Austral  waters  took  her  way, 

Beyond  the  fabulous  Thamondocona. 

XLVIII. 

Where.  like  a  meadow  which  no  scythe  has  shaven, 
Which  rain  could  never  bend.orwhirlblast  shake, 

With  the  Antarctic  constellations  paven, 

Canopus  and  his  crew,  lay  th'  Austral  lake — • 

There  she  would  build  herself  a  windless  haven 
Out  of  the  clouds  whose  moving  turrets  make 

The  bastions  of  the  storm,  when  through  the  sky 

The  spirits  of  the  tempests  thundered  by. 

XLIX. 

A  haven,  beneath  whose  translucent  floor 
The  tremulous  stars  sparkled  unfathomably, 

And  around  which  the  solid  vapours  hoar, 
Based  on  the  level  waters,  to  the  sky 

Lifted  their  dreadful  crags ;  and.  like  a  shore 
Of  wintry  mountahis,  inaccessibly 

Hemmed  in  with  rifts  and  precipices  gray, 

And  hanging  crags,  many  a  cove  and  bay. 

L. 

And  whilst  the  outer  lake  beneath  the  lash 

Of  the  wind's  scourge,  foamed  like  a  wounded 

And  the  incessant  hail,  with  stony  clash       [thing ; 
Ploughed  up  the  waters,  and  the  flagging  wing 

Of  the  roused  cormorant  in  the  lightning  flash 
Looked  like  the  wreck  of  some  wind-wandering 

Fragment  of  inky  thunder-smoke — this  haven 

M^as  as  a  gem  to  copy  Heaven  engraven. 

LI. 

On  which  that  lady  played  her  many  pranks, 
Circling  the  image  of  a  shooting  star. 

Even  as  a  tiger  on  Hydaspes'  banks 

Outspeeds  the  Antelopes  which  speediest  arc, 

In  her  light  boat ;  and  many  quips  and  cranks 
She  played  upon  the  water  ?^ill  the  car 

Of  the  late  moon,  like  a  sick  matron  wan, 

To  journey  from  the  misty  east  began. 

in. 

And  then  she  called  out  of  the  hollow  turrets 
Of  those  high  clouds,  white,  golden,  and  vermilion. 

The  armies  of  her  ministering  spirits — 
In  mighty  legions  million  after  million 

They  came,  each  troop  emblazoning  its  merits 
On  meteor  flags ;  and  many  a  proud  pavilion, 

Of  the  intcrtexture  of  the  atmosphere. 

They  pitched  upon  the  plain  of  the  calm  mere. 


LIII. 

They  framed  the  imperial  tent  of  their  great  Queen 

Of  woven  exhalations,  underlaid 
With  lambent  lightning-fire,  as  may  be  seen 

A  dome  of  thin  and  open  ivory  inlaid 
With  crimson  silk — cressets  from  the  serene 

Ilung  there,  and  on  the  water  for  her  tread, 
A  tajjcstry  of  fleccelike  mist  was  strewn. 
Dyed  in  the  beams  of  the  ascending  moon. 

LIT. 

And  on  a  throne  o'erlaid  with  starlight,  caught 
Upon  those  wandering  isles  of  aery  dew, 

Which  highest  shoals  of  mountain  shipwreck  not. 
She  safe,  and  heard  all  that  had  hajipened  new 

Between  the  earth  and  moon  since  they  had  brought 
The  last  intclhgcnce — and  now  she  grew 

Pale  as  that  moon,  lost  in  the  watery  night — 

And  now  she  wept,  and  now  she  laughed  outright. 

i/»'. 

These  were  tame  pleasures. — She  would  often  cUmb 
The  steepest  ladder  of  the  crudded  rack 

Up  to  some  beaked  cape  of  cloud  sublime, 
And  like  Arion  on  the  dolphin's  back 

Ride  singing  through  the  shoreless  air.     Oft  time 
Following  the  serpent  lightning's  winding  track. 

She  ran  upon  the  platforms  of  the  wind. 

And  laughed  to  hear  the  fireballs  roar  behind. 

ITI. 

And  sometimes  to  those  streams  of  upper  air, 
Which  whirl  the  earth  in  its  diurnal  round, 

She  would  ascend,  and  win  the  spirits  there 
To  let  her  join  their  chorus.     Mortals  found 

That  on  those  days  the  sky  was  calm  and  fair, 
And  mystic  snatches  of  harmonious  sound 

Wandered  upon  the  earth  where'er  she  passed, 

And  happy  thoughts  of  hope,  too  sweet  to  last. 

LVII. 

But  her  choice  sport  was,  in  the  hours  of  sleep, 
To  glide  adown  old  Nilus,  when  he  threads 

Egypt  and  ^Ethiopia,  from  the  steep 
Of  utmost  Axume,  until  he  spreads, 

Like  a  calm  flock  of  silver-fleeced  sheep. 
His  waters  on  the  plain  :  and  crested  heads 

Of  cities  and  proud  temples  gleam  amid, 

And  many  a  vapour-belted  pyranu4. 

LTIII. 

By  ATccris  and  the  Mareotid  lakes,  [floors; 

Strewn  with  feint  blooms  like  bridal  chamber 
^^"here  naked  boys  bridling  tame  water-snakes, 

Or  charioteering  ghastly  alligators, 
Had  left  on  the  sweet  waters  mighty  wakes 

Of  those  huge  forms. — within  the  brazen  doors 
Of  the  great  Labyrinth  slept  both  lioy  and  beast, 
Tired  with  the  pomp  of  their  Osirian  feast. 

LIX. 

And  where  within  the  surface  of  the  river 
The  shadows  of  the  massy  temples  lie, 

And  never  are  erased — but  tremble  ever 

Like  things  which  every  cloud  can  doom  to  die, 

Through  lotus-pav'n  canals,  and  wheresoever 
The  works  of  man  pierced  that  serenest  sky 

With  tombs,  and  towers,  and  fane,  'twas  her  delight 

To  wander  in  the  shadow  of  the  night. 


300 


POEMS    WRITTEN    IN    1820. 


With  motion  like  the  spirit  of  that  wind 

Whose  soft  step  deepens  slumber,  her  light  feet 

Past  through  the  peopled  haunts  of  human  kind, 
Scattering  sweet  visions  from  her  presence  "sweet, 

Through  fane  and  jialace-court  and  labyrinth  mined 
With  many  a  dark  and  subterranean  street 

Under  the  Nile ;  through  chambers  high  and  deep 

She  past,  observing  mortals  in  their  sleep. 

LXL. 

A  pleasure  sweet  doubtless  it  was  to  see 
Mortals  subdued  in  all  the  shapes  of  sleep. 

Here  lay  two  sister-twins  in  infancy ; 

There  a  lone  youth  who  in  his  dreams  did  weep; 

Within,  two  lovers  Ihiked  innocently 

In  their  loose  locks  which  over  both  did  creep 

Like  ivy  from  one  stem ; — and  there  lay  calm, 

Old  age  with  snow-bright  hair  and  folded  palm. 

Lxir. 
But  other  troubled  forms  of  sleep  she  saw, 

Not  to  be  mirrored  in  a  holy  song, 
Distortions  foul  of  supernatural  awe. 

And  pale  imaginings  of  yisioncd  wrong. 
And  all  the  code  of  custom's  lawless  law 

Written  upon  the  brows  of  old  and  young : 
"  This,"  said  the  v^nzard  maiden,  "  is  the  strife 
Which  stirs  the  liquid  surface  of  nian's  life." 

LXIII. 

And  little  did  the  sight  disturb  her  soul — 
We,  the  weak  mariners  of  that  wide  lake. 

Where'er  its  shores  extend  or  billows  roll. 
Our  course  unpiloted  and  starless  make 

O'er  its  mde  surface  to  an  unknown  goal, — 
But  she  in  the  calm  depths  her  way  could  take. 

Where  in  bright  bowers  immortal  forms  abide, 

Beneath  the  weltering  of  the  restless  tide. 


And  she  saw  princes  couched  under  the  glow 
Of  sunlike  gems ;  and  round  each  temple-court 

In  dormitories  ranged,  row  after  row. 

She  saw  the  priests  asleep, — all  of  one  sort, 

For  all  were  educated  to  be  so. 

The  peasants  in  their  huts,  and  in  the  port 

The  sailors  she  saw  cradled  on  the  waves. 

And  the  dead  lulled  within  their  dreamless  graves. 

LXV. 

And  all  the  forms  in  which  those  spirits  lay, 
Were  to  her  sight  like  the  diajjhanous 

Veils,  in  which  those  sweet  ladies  oft  aiTay 

Their  delicate  limbs,  who  wouklK-onceal  from  us 

Only  their  scorn  of  all  concealment :  they 
Move  in  the  light  of  their  own  beauty  thus. 

But  these  and  all  now  lay  with  sleep  upon  them, 

And  little  thought  a  Witch  was  looking  on  them. 

LXVI. 

She  all  those  human  figures  breathing  there 
Beheld  as  living  spirits — to  her  eyes 

The  naked  beauty  of  the  soul  lay  bare, 

And  often  through  a  rude  and  worn  disguise 

She  saw  the  inner  form  most  bright  and  fair— 
And  then, — she  had  a  charm  of  strange  device. 

Which,  murmured  on  mute  lips  with  tender  tone, 

Could  make  that  spirit  mingle  with  her  own. 


LXVII. 

Alas,  Aurora !  what  wouldst  thou  have  given 
For  such  a  charm,  when  Tithon  became  grayl 

Or  how  much,  Venus,  of  thy  silver  heaven 
Wouldst  thou  have  yielded,  ere  Proserpina 

Had  half  (oh  !  why  not  all  ?)  the  debt  forgiven 
Which  dear  Adonis  had  been  doomed  to  pay, 

To  any  witch  who  would  have  taught  you  it  1 

The  Hehad  doth  not  know  its  value  yet. 

LXVIII. 

'Tis  said  in  after  times  her  spirit  free 

Knew  what  love  was,  and  felt  itself  alone — 

But  holy  Dian  could  not  chaster  be 
Before  she  stooped  to  kiss  Endymion, 

Than  now  this  lady — hke  a  sexless  bee 

Tasting  all  blossoms,  and  confined  to  none — 

Among  those  mortal  forms,  the  wizard-maiden 

Passed  with  an  eye  serene  and  heart  unladen. 

LXIX. 

To  those  she  saw  most  beautiliil,  she  gave 

Strange  panacea  in  a  crystal  bowl. 
They  drank  in  their  deep  sleep  of  that  sweet  wave, 

And  lived  thenceforth  as  if  some  control. 
Mightier  than  life,  were  in  them ;  and  the  grave 

Of  such,  when  death  oppressed  the  wearj'  soul. 
Was  a  green  and  overarching  bower 
Lit  by  the  gems  of  many  a  starry  flower. 

LXX. 

For  on  the  night  that  they  were  buried,  she 
Restored  the  embalmers'  ruining,  and  shook 

The  light  out  of  the  funeral  lamps,  to  be 
A  mimic  day  within  that  deathy  nook ; 

And  she  unwound  the  woven  imagery 

Of  second  childhood's  swaddling  bands,  and  took 

The  coffin,  its  last  cradle,  from  its  niche. 

And  threw  it  with  contempt  into  a  ditch. 

LXXI. 

And  there  the  body  lay,  age  after  age. 

Mute,  breathing,  beating,  warm,  and  undecaying. 

Like  one  asleep  in  a  g^een  hermitage, 

With  gentle  sleep  about  its  eyelids  playing, 

And  living  in  its  dreams  beyond  the  rage 

Of  death  or  life ;  while  they  were  still  arraying 

In  liveries  ever  new  the  rapid,  blind. 

And  fleeting  generations  of  mankind. 

I.XXII. 

And  she  would  write  strange  dreams  upon  the  brain 
Of  those  who  were  less  beautiful,  and  make 

All  harsh  and  crooked  purposes  more  vain 
Than  in  the  desert  is  the  serpent's  wake 

Which  the  sand  covers, — all  his  evil  gain 

The  miser  in  such  dreams  would  rise  and  shake 

Into  a  beggar's  lap ; — the  lying  scribe 

Would  his  own  lies  betray  without  a  bribe. 

LXXIII. 

The  priests  would  write  an  explanation  full, 
Translating  hieroglyphics  into  Greek, 

How  the  god  Apis  really  was  a  bull. 

And  nothing  more ;  and  bid  the  herald  stick 

The  same  against  the  temple  doors,  and  pull 
The  old  cant  down ;  they  licensed  all  to  speak 

Whate'er  they  thought  of  hawks,  and  cats,  and  geese, 

By  pastoral  letters  to  each  diocese. 


ODE    TO    NAPLES. 


301 


LXXIV. 

The  king  would  dress  an  ape  up  in  liis  crown 
And  robes,  and  seat  liiin  on  his  g-lorious  scat, 

And  on  the  riglit  hand  of  the  suuhlce  throne 
\\'ould  place  a  gaudy  mocii.-hird  to  repeat 

The  ohatterings  of  the  monkey. — Every  one 
Of  the  prone  courtiers  crawh^d  to  kiss  the  feet 

Of  tlieir  great  Emperor  when  the  morning  came; 

And  kissed — alas,  how  many  kiss  the  same  ! 

LXXV. 

The  soldiers  dreamed  that  they  were  blacksmiths, 

Walked  out  of  quarters  in  somnambulism,  [and 
Round  the  red  anvils  you  might  see  them  stand 

Like  Cyclopscs  in  Vulcan's  sooty  abysm. 
Beating  their  swords  to  ploughshares ;— in  a  band 

The  jailers  sent  those  of  the  liberal  schism 
Free  through  the  streets  of  Memphis ;  much,  I  wis. 
To  the  annoyance  of  king  Amasis. 

Lxxvr. 
And  timid  lovers  who  had  been  so  coy. 

They  hardly  knew  whether  they  loved  or  not, 
Would  rise  out  of  their  rest,  and  take  sweet  joy, 

To  the  fulfdment  of  their  inmost  thought ; 
And  when  next  day  the  maiden  and  the  boy 

Met  one  another,  both,  like  sinners  caught. 
Blushed   at  the   thing  which  each  believed  was 
Only  in  fancy — till  the  tenth  moon  shone ;    [done 

Lxxvir. 
And  then  the  Witch  would  let  them  take  no  ill : 

Of  many  thousand  schemes  which  lovers  find 
The  Witch  found  one, — and  so  they  took  their  fill 

Of  happiness  in  marriage  warm  and  kind. 
Friends  who,  by  practice  of  some  envious  skill. 

Were   torn   apart,   a   wide   wound,  mind  from 
She  did  unite  again  with  visions  clear  [mind ! 

Of  deep  affection  and  of  truth  sincere. 

Lxxviir. 
These  were  the  pranks  she  played  among  the  cities 

Of  mortal  men,  and  what  she  did  to  sprites 
And  Gods,  entangling  them  in  her  sweet  ditties. 

To  do  her  will,  and  show  their  subtle  slights, 
I  will  declare  another  time ;  for  it  is 

A  tale  more  fit  for  the  weird  winter  nights — 
Than  for  these  garish  summer  days,  when  we 
Scarcely  believe  much  more  than  we  can  see. 


ODE  TO  ^^\PLES.* 

EPODE     I.    a. 

I  STOOTi  wnthin  the  city  disinterred  ;t 

And  heard  the  autumnal  leaves  like  light  foot- 
falls 

*  The  Author  has  connectod  many  recollections  of 
his  visit  to  Pompeii  and  Baia;  with  the  enthusiasm  ex- 
cited by  the  intelliiience  of  the  proclamation  of  a  Con- 
stitntional  Government  at  Naples.  This  has  given  a 
tiniro  of  picturesque  and  descriptive  imagery  to  the  in- 
troductory Epodcs,  which  depictiire  the  scenes  and  some 
of  the  majestic  feelin!;s  permanently  connected  with  the 
scene  of  this  animating  event. — Author's  JVutc. 

t  Pompeii. 


Of  spirits  passing  through  the  streets ;  and  heard 
The  Mountain's  slumberous  voice  at  intervals 
■  Thrill  through  those  roofless  halls; 

The  oracular  thunder  ponctraling  shook 
The  listening  soul  in  my  suspended  blood ; 

I  felt  that  Earth  out  of  her  deep  heart  .'jjjoke — 
I  felt,  but  heard  not: — through  white  columns 
The  isle-sustaining  Ocean  flood,         [glowed 

A  plane  of  light  between  two  heavens  of  azure  : 
Around  me  gleamed  many  a  bright  sepulchre 

Of  whose  pure  beauty.  Time,  as  if  his  pleasure 
Were  to  spare  Death,  had  never  made  erasure ; 
But  every  living  lineament  was  clear 
As  in  the  sculptor's  thought ;  and  there 

The  wreaths  of  .stony  myrtle,  ivy,  and  pine, 

Like  winter  leaves  o'ergrown  by  moulded  snow, 
Seemed  only  not  to  move  and  grow 

Because  the  crystal  silence  of  the  air 

Weighed  on  their  life ;  even  as  the  Power  divine. 
Which  then  lulled  all  things,  brooded  upon  mine. 

EPODE    II.  a. 

Then  gentle  winds  arose, 

With  many  a  mingled  close 
Of  wild  ^olian  sound  and  mountain  odour  keen ; 

And  where  the  Baian  ocean 

Welters  with  airlike  motion. 
Within,  above,  around  its  bowers  of  starry  green, 
Moving  the  sea-flowers  in  those  purple  caves, 
Even  as  the  ever  stormless  atmosphere 
Floats  o'er  the  Elysian  realm. 
It  bore  me  hke  an  Angel,  o'er  the  waves 

Of  sunlight,  whose  swift  pinnace  of  dewy  air 

No  storm  can  overwhelm ; 

I  sailed  where  ever  flows 

Under  the  calm  Serene 

A  spirit  of  deep  emotion. 

From  the  unknown  graves 

Of  the  dead  kings  of  Melody.* 
Shadowy  Aornos  darkened  o'er  the  helm 
The  horizontal  rether ;  heaven  stript  hare 
Its  depths  o'er  Elysium,  where  the  prow 
Made  the  invisible  water  white  as  snow; 
From  that  Typhffian  mount,  Inarime, 
There  streamed  a  sunlight  vapour,  hke  the  standard 

Of  some  ethereal  host ; 

Whilst  fi-om  all  the  coast. 
Louder  and  louder,  gathering  round,  there  wandered 
Over  the  oracular  woods  and  divine  sea 
Prophesyings  which  grew  articulate — 
They  seize  me — I  must  speak  them  ; — be  they  fate ! 

STROPHE    II.    1. 

Naples  !  thou  Heart  of  men,  which  ever  pantcst 

Naked,  beneath  the  lidless  eye  of  heaven  ! 
Elvsian  City,  which  to  calm  enchantcst 

The  mutinous  air  and  sea  !  they  round  thee,  even 
As  sleep  round  Love,  are  driven  ! 
Metropolis  of  a  ruined  Paradise 

Long  lost,  late  won,  and  yet  but  half  regained  ! 
Bright  Altar  of  the  bloodless  sacrifice. 

Which  armed  Victory  offers  up  unstained 

To  Love,  the  flower-enchained ! 


♦  Horn'T  and  Virgil. 
2C 


302 


POEMS    WRITTEN    IN    1820. 


Thou  which  wert  once,  and  then  didst  cease  to  be, 
Now  art,  and  hencefortli  ever  shalt  be,  free, 
If  Hope  and  Truth,  and  Justice  can  avail. 
Hail,  hail,  all  hail ! 

ST  HOP  HE    l3.    '2. 

Thou  youngest  giant  birth, 

Which  from  the  groaning  earth 
Leap'st,  clothed  in  armour  of  impenetrable  scale  ! 

Last  of  the  Intea-es.sors 

Who  'gainst  the  Crowned  Transgressors 
Pleadest  before  God's  love!  Arrajed  in  Wisdom's 
mail, 

Wave  thy  lightning  lance  in  mirth ; 

Nor  let  thy  high  heart  fail, 
Though  from  their  hundred    gates    the  leagued 
Oppressors, 

With  hurried  legions  move  ! 

Hail,  hail,  all  hail ! 

AXTISTUOPHE    a. 

What  though  Cimmerian  Anarchs  dare  blaspheme 

Freedom  and  thee  1  thy-  shield  is  as  a  mirror 
To  make  their  blind  slaves  see,  and  with  fierce 
gleam 

To  turn  his  hungry  sword  upon  the  wearer ; 
A  new  Acteon's  error 
Shall  theirs  have  been — devoured  by   their  own 
hounds ! 

Be  thou  like  the  imperial  Basilisk, 
Killing  thy  foe  with  unapparcnt  wounds ! 

Gaze  on  oppression,  till  at  tliat  dread  risk 

Aghast  she  pass  from  the  Earth's  disk : 
Fear  not,  but  gaze — for  freemen  mightier  grow, 
And  slaves  more  feeble,  gazing  on  their  foe. 

If  Hope  and  Truth,  and  Justice  may  avail, 

Thou  shalt  be  great. — All  hail ! 

A^JTISTTIOPHB    ,o.    2. 

From  Freedom's  form  divine, 

From  Nature's  inmost  shrine. 
Strip  every  impious  gawd,  rend  Error  by  the  veil : 

O'er  Ruin  desolate, 

O'er  Falsehood's  fallen  state. 
Sit  thou  sublime,  unawed  ;  be  the  Destroyer  pale  ! 

And  equal  laws  be  thine, 

And  winged  words  let  sail, 
Freighted  with  truth  even  from  the  throne  o    God  : 

That  wealth,  surviving  fate. 

Be  thine.— All  hail ! 

ANTISTROPHK    a.    y. 

Didst   thou    not   start   to   hear  Spain's  thrilling 
pjEan 
From  land  to  land  re-echoed  solemnly. 
Till  silence  became  music?   From  the  JEea.n* 
To  the  cold  Alps,  eternal  Italy 
Starts  to  hear  thine  !  The  Sea 
Which  paves  the  desert  streets  of  Veiiice,  laughs 

In  light  and  music  ;  widowed  Genoa  wan. 
By  moonlight  spells  ancestral  epitaphs. 
Murmuring,  where  is  Dorial   fair  Milan, 
Within  whose  veins  long  ran 

*  ^Ea:a,  the  Island  of  Circe. 


The  viper's*  palsying  venom,  lifts  her  heel 
To  bruise  his  head.     The  signal  and  the  seal 
(If  Hope,  and  Truth,  and  Justice  can  avail) 
Art  Thou  of  all  these  hopes. — O  hail ! 

ANTISTKOPHE    /?.  y. 

Florence !  beneath  the  sun, 

Of  cities  fairest  one,  [tion : 

Blushes  within  her  bower  for  Freedom's  expecta- 
From  eyes  of  quenchless  hope 
Rome  tears  the  priestly  cope, 

As  ruling  once  by  power,  so  now  by  admiration, 
An  athlete  stript  to  run 
From  a  remoter  station 

For  the  high  prize  lost  on  Philippi's  shore: — 
As  then  Hope,  Truth,  and  Justice  did  avail, 
So  now  may  Fraud  and  Wrong !     O  hail ! 

EPODE  I.  p. 

Hear  ye  the  march  as  of  the  Earth-bom  Forms 

Arrayed  against  the  overliving  Gods  ] 
The  crash  and  darkness  of  a  thousand  storms 
Bursting  their  inaccessible  abodes 

Of  crags  and  thunder-clouds  ? 
See  ye  the  banners  blazoned  to  the  day. 

Inwrought  with  emblems  of  barbaric  pride! 
Dissonant  threats  kill  Silence  far  away. 

The  Serene  Heaven  which  wraps  our  Eden  wide 
With  Iron  light  is  dyed. 
The  Anarchs  of  the  North  lead  forth  tlieir  legions 

Like  Chaos  o'er  creation,  uncreating; 
A  hundred  tribes  nourished  on  strange  religions 
And  lawless  slaveries, — down  the  aerial  regions 
■  Of  the  white  Alps,  desolating. 
Famished  wolves  that  bide  no  waiting, 
Blotting  the  glowing  footsteps  of  old  glory. 
Trampling  our  columned  cities  into  dust, 

Their  dull  and  savage  lust 
On  Beauty's  corse  to  sickness  satiating —    [hoary, 
They  come !  The  fields  they  tread  look  black  and 
With  fire — from  their  red  feet  the  streams  run 
gory! 

EPODE   ir. ./?. 

Great  Spirit,  deepest  Love  ! 

Whicli  rulest  and  dost  move 
All  things  which  live  and  arc,  within   the   Italian 
shore  ; 

Who  spreadest  heaven  around  it. 

Whose  woods,  rocks,  waves,  surround  it; 
W^ho  sittest  in  thy  star,  o'er  Ocean's  western  floor, 
Spirit  of  beauty  !  at  whose  soft  command 
The  sunbeams  and  the  showers  distil  its  ibison  ! 

From  the  Earth's  bosom  chill ! 
0  bid  those  beams  lie  each  a  blinding  brand 
Of  lightning !  bid  those  showers  be  dews  of  poison ! 

Bid  the  Earth's  plenty  kill ! 

Bid  thy  bright  Heaven  above 

Whilst  light  and  darkness  bound  it, 

Be  their  tomb  who  planned 

To  make  it  ours  and  thine  ! 
Or,  with  thy  harmonizing  ardours  fill 
And  raise  thy  sons,  as  o'er  the  prone  horizon 

*Tho  viper  was  the  armorial  device  of  tlie  \iscoiili, 
tyrants  of  ftjilan. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


303 


Thy  lamp  feeds  every  twilight  wave  with  fire — 
Be  man's  hij^h  hope  ami  unextirict  desire 
The  instrument  to  work  thy  will  divine  !      [pards, 
Then   clouds  from  sunbeams,  antelopes  from  leo- 
And  frowns  and  fears  from  Thee, 
Would  not  more  swiftly  flee, 
Thau  Celtic  wolves  from  the  Ansonian  shepherds. — 
Whatever,  Spirit,  from  thy  starry  shrine 
Thou  yieldest  or  withholdest.  Oh  let  be 
This  City  of  thy  worship,  ever  free  ! 


AUTUMN: 

A    DIRGE. 

The  warm  sun  is  failing,  the  bleak  %vind  is  wailing, 

The  bare  boughs  are  sighing,  the  pale  flowers  are 

And  the  year  [dying, 

On  the  earth  her  deathbed,  in  a  shroud  of  leaves 

.  Is  lying.  [dead. 

Come,  months,  come  away, 

From  November  to  May, 

In  your  saddest  array; 

Follow  the  bier 

Of  the  dead  cold  year, 
And  like  dim  shadows  watch  by  her  sepulchre. 

The  chill  rain  is  falling,  the  nipt  worm  is  crawling. 
The  rivers  are  swelling,  the  thunder  is  knelling 

For  the  year ; 
The  blithe  swallows  are  flown,  and  the  lizards  each 
gone 
To  his  dwelling ; 
Come,  months,  come  away ; 
Put  on  white,  black,  and  gray, 
Let  your  light  sisters  play — 
Ye,  follow  the  bier 
Of  the  dead  cold  year, 
And  make  her  grave  green  with  tear  on  tear. 


THE  WANING  MOON. 

Asv  like  the  dying  lady,  lean  and  pale, 
Who  totters  forth,  wrapt  in  a  gauzy  veil, 
Out  of  her  chamber,  led  by  the  insane 
And  feeble  wanderings  of  her  fading  brain. 
The  moon  arose  up  in  the  murky  earth, 
A  white  and  shapeless  mass. 


DEATH. 


Death  is  here,  and  death  is  there. 
Death  is  busy  every  where. 
All  around,  within,  beneath. 
Above  is  death — and  we  are  death. 

Death  has  set  his  mark  and  seal 
On  all  we  are  and  all  we  feel, 
On  all  we  know  and  all  we  fear. 


First  our  pleasures  die — and  then 

Our  hopes,  and  then  our  fears — and  when 

'J'hese  are  dead,  the  debt  is  due. 

Dust  clairtis  dust  and  we  die  too. 

All  things  that  we  love  and  cherish, 
Like  ourselves,  must  fade  and  perish; 
Such  is  our  rude  mortal  lot — 
Love  itself  would,. did  they  not. 


LIBERTY. 

The  fiery  mountains  answer  each  other; 
Their  thunderings  are  echoed  from  zone  to  zone ; 
The  tempestuous  oceans  awake  one  another. 
And  the  ice-rocks  are  shaken  round  winter's  zone, 
When  the  clarion  of  the  Typhoon  is  blown. 

From  a  single  cloud  the  lightning  flashes. 
Whilst  a  thousand  isles  are  illumined  round. 
Earthquake  is  trampling  one  city  to  ashes, 
A   hundred    are    shuddering  and   tottering;    the 
sound 
Is  bellowing  under  ground. 

But  keener  thy  gaze  than  the  lightning's  glare, 
And  swifter  thy  step  than  the  earthquake's  tramp ; 
Thou  deafencst  the  rage  of  the  ocean ;  thy  stare 
Makes  blind  the  volcanoes ;  the  sun's  bright  lamp 
To  thine  is  a  fen-lire  damp. 

From  billow  and  mountain  and  exhalation 
The  sunlight  is  darted  through  vapour  and  blast; 
From  spirit  to  spirit,  from  nation  to  nation, 
From  city  to  hamlet,  thy  dawning  is  cast, — 
And  tyrants  and  slaves  are  like  shadows  of  night 
In  the  van  of  the  morning  light. 


TO  THE  MOON. 

Aht  thou  pale  for  weariness 
Of  climbing  heaven,  and  sazing  on  the  earth. 

Wandering  companionless 
Among  the  stars  that  have  a  difierent  birth, — 
And  everchanging,  like  a  joyless  eye 
That  finds  no  object  worth  its  constancy  1 


SUMMER  AND  WINTER. 

It  was  a  bright  and  cheerful  afternoon. 
Towards  the  end  of  the  sunny  month  of  June, 
When  the  north  wind  congregates  in  crowds 
The  floating  mountains  of  the  silver  clouds 
From  the  horizon — and  the  stainless  sky 
Ojiens  beyond  them  like  eternity. 
All  things  rejoiced  beneath  the  sun,  the  weeds, 
The  river,  and  the  cornfields,  and  the  reeds ; 
The  willow  leaves  that  glanced  in  the  light  breeze, 
And  the  firm  foliage  of  the  larger  trees. 


304 


POEMS    WRITTEN    IN    1820. 


It  was  a  winter  such  as  when  birds  die 
In  the  deep  forests ;  and  the  fishes  he 
StitFencd  in  the  transUiccnt  ice,  which  niakes 
Even  the  mud  and  shnie  of  the  warm  lakes 
A  wrinkled  clod,  as  hard  as  brick ;  and  when, 
Among  their  children,  comfortable  men 
Gather  about  great  fires,  and  yet  feel  cold: 
Alas  !  then  for  the  homeless  bcKSar  old  ! 


THE  TOWER  OF  FAMINE.* 

Amid  the  desolation  of  a  city, 

Which  was  the  cradle,  and  is  now  the  grave. 

Of  an  extinguished  people  ;  so  that  pity 

Weeps  o'er  Ihc  shipwrecks  of  oblivion's  wave, 

There  stands  the  Tower  of  Famine.     It  is  built 

Upon  some  prison-homes,  whose  dwellers  rave 

For  bread,  and  gold,  and  blood  :  pain,  linked  to  guilt. 

Agitates  the  light  flame  of  their  hours. 

Until  its  vital  oil  is  spent  or  spilt : 

There  stands  the  pile,  a  tower  amid  the  towers 

And  sacred  domes;  each  marble-ribbed  roof. 

The  brazen-gated  temples,  and  the  bowers 

Of  solitary  wealth  !  the  tempest-proof 

Panlions  of  the  dark  Italian  air 

Are  by  its  presence  dimmed — ^they  stand  aloof. 

And  are  withdrawn — so  that  the  world  is  bare. 

As  if  a  spectre,  wrapt  in  shapeless  terror. 

Amid  a  company  of  ladies  fair 

Should  glide  and  glow,  till  it  became  a  mirror 

Of  all  their  beauty,  and  their  hair  and  hue, 

The  life  of  their  sweet  eyes,  with  all  its  error, 

Should  be  absorbed,  till  they  to  marble  grew. 


AN  ALLEGORY. 

A  ponTAL  as  of  shadowry  adamant 

Stands  yawning  on  the  highway  of  the  life 
Which  we  all  tread,  a  cavern  huge  and  gaunt ; 

Around  it  rages  an  unceasing  strife 
Of  shadows,  like  the  restless  clouds  that  haunt 
The  gap  of  some  cleft  mountain,  lifted  high 
Into  the  whirlwinds  of  the  upper  sky. 

And  many  passed  it  by  with  careless  tread, 
Not  knowing  that  a  shadowy  [  ] 

Tracks  every  traveller  even  to  where  the  dead 
Wait  peacefully  for  their  companion  new ; 

But  others,  by  more  curious  humour  led, 
Pause  to  examine,- — -these  are  very  few, 

And  they  learn  little  there,  except  to  know 

That  shadows  follow  them  where'er  they  go. 

*  At  Pisa  there  still  exists  the  prison  of  Ugolino, 
which  goes  by  the  name  of  "La  Torre  della  Fame:" 
in  the  adjoinin!»  building  the  galley-slaves  are  confined. 
It  is  situated  near  the  Ponte  al  Mare  on  the  Arno. 


THE  WORLD'S  WANDERERS. 


Tell  me,  thou  star,  whose  wings  of  light 
Speed  thee  in  thy  fierj'  flight, 
In  what  cavern  of  the  night 

Will  thy  pinions  close  nowl 

Tell  me,  moon,  thou  pale  and  gray 
Pilgrim  of  heaven's  homeless  way. 
In  what  depth  of  night  or  day 
Seekest  thou  repose  now  ? 

Weary  wind  who  wanderest 
Like  the  world's  rejected  guest. 
Hast  thou  still  some  secret  nest 
On  the  tree  or  billow  1 


SONNET. 


Ye  hasten  to  the  dead !    What  seek  ye  there. 

Ye  restless  thoughts  and  busy  purposes 

Of  the  idle  brain,  which  the  world's  livery  wear  1 

O  thou  quick  heart  which  pantest  to  possess 

All  that  anticipation  feigneth  fair ! 

Thou  vainly  curious  mind  which  wouldest  guess 

Whence  thou  didst  come,  and  whither  thou  mayest 

go, 
And   that  which  never  yet  was  known  wouldst 

know — 
Oh,  whither  hasten  ye,  that  thus  ye  press 
With  such  swift  feet  life's  green  and  pleasant  path. 
Seeking  alike  from  happiness  and  wo 
A  refuge  in  the  cavern  of  gray  death  1 
O  heart,  and  niind,  and  thoughts !     What  thing 

do  you 
Hope  to  inherit  in  the  grave  below  ? 


LINES  TO  A  REVIEWER. 


Alas  !  good  friend,  what  profit  can  you  see 
In  hating  such  a  hateless  thing  as  me  1 
There  is  no  sport  in  hate  where  all  the  rage 
Is  on  one  side.     In  vain  would  you  assuage 
Your  frowns  upon  an  unresisting  smile. 
In  whidi  not  even  contempt  lurks,  to  beguile 
Your  heart,  by  some  faint  sympathj'  of  hate. 
Oh  conquer  what  you  cannot  satiate ! 
For  to  your  passion  I  am  far  more  coy 
Than  ever  yet  was  coldest  maid  or  boy 
In  winter  noon.     Of  your  antipathy 
If  I  am  the  Narcissus,  you  are  free 
To  pine  into  a  sound  with  hating  me. 


EDITOR'S    NOTE    ON    POEMS    OF    182  0. 


305 


NOTE  ON  THE  POEMS  OF  1820. 


BY  THE  EDITOR. 


We  spent  the  latter  part  of  the  year  1819  in 
Florence,  where  Shelley  passed  several  hours  daily 
in  the  Gallery,  and  made  various  notes  on  its  an- 
cient works  of  art.  His  thoughts  were  a  good  deal 
taken  up  also  by  the  project  of  a  steamboat,  under- 
taken by  a  friend,  an  engineer,  to  ply  between 
Leghorn  and  Marseilles,  for  which  he  supplied  a 
sum  of  money.  This  was  a  sort  of  plan  to  delight 
Shelley,  and  he  was  greatly  disappointed  when  it 
was  thrown  aside. 

There  was  something  in  Florence  that  disagreed 
excessively  with  his  health,  and  he  suffered  far 
more  pain  than  usual ;  so  much  so  that  we  left 
it  soonej  than  we  intended,  and  removed  to  Pisa, 
where  we  had  some  friends,  and,  above  all,  where 
we  could  consult  the  celebrated  Vacca,  as  to  the 
cause  of  Shelley's  sufferings.  He,  like  every  other 
medical  man,  could  only  guess  at  that,  and  gave 
little  hope  of  immediate  relief;  he  enjoined  him 
to  abstain  from  all  physicians  and  medicine,  and 
to  leave  his  complaint  to  nature.  As  he  had 
vainly  cojisulted  medical  men  of  the  highest'  re- 
pute in  England,  he  was  easily  persuaded  to  adopt 
this  ad\-ice.  Pain  and  ill-health  followed  him  to 
the  end,  but  the  residence  at  Pisa  agreed  with  him 
better  than  any  other,  and  there  in  consequence 
we  remained. 

In  the  spring  we  spent  a  week  or  two  near 
Leghorn,  borrowing  the  house  of  some  friends, 
who  were  absent  on  a  journey  to  England. — It 
was  on  a  beautiful  summer  evening,  while  wan- 
dering among  the  lanes,  whose  myrtle  hedges 
were  the  bowers  of  the  fireflies,  that  we  heard 
the  carolling  of  the  skylark,  which  inspired  one  of 
the  most  beautiful  of  his  poems.  He  addressed 
the  letter  to  Mrs.  Gisborne  from  this  house,  which 
was  hers ;  he  had  made  his  study  of  the  workshop 
of  her  son,  who  was  an  engineer,  Mrs.  Gisljorne 
had  been  a  friend  of  my  father  in  her  younger  days. 
She  was  a  lady  of  great  accomplishments,  and 
charming  from  her  frank  and  affectionate  nature. 
She  had  the  most  intense  love  of  knowledge,  a 
delicate  and  trerabUng  sensibility,  and  preserved 
freshness  of  mind,  after  a  life  of  considerable 
adversity.  As  a  favourite  friend  of  my  father  we 
had  sought  her  with  eagerness,  and  the  most  open 

and  cordial  friendship  was  established  between  us. 
39 


We  spent  the  summer  at  the  baths  of  San 
Giuliano,  four  miles  from  Pisa.  These  baths 
were  of  great  use  to  Shelley  in  soothing  his  nervous 
irritability.  We  made  several  excursions  in  the 
neighbourhood.  The  country  around  is  fertile ; 
and  diversified  and  rendered  picturesque  by  ranges 
of  near  hills  and  more  distant  mountains.  The 
peasantry  are  a  handsome,  intelUgent  race,  and 
there  was  a  gladsome  sunny  heaven  spread  over 
us,  that  rendered  home  and  every  scene  we  visited 
cheerful  and  bright.  During  some  of  the  hottest 
days  of  August,  Shelley  made  a  solitary  journey 
on  foot  to  the  summit  of  Monte  San  Pelegrino — 
a  mountain  of  some  height,  on  the  top  of  which 
there  is  a  chapel,  the  object,  during  certain  days 
in  the  year,  of  many  pilgrimages.  The  excursion 
delighted  him  while  it  lasted,  though  he  exerted 
himself  too  much,  and  the  effect  was  considerable 
lassitude  and  weakness  on  his  return.  During 
the  expedition  he  conceived  the  idea  and  wrote, 
in  the  three  days  immediately  succeeding  to  his 
return,  the  Witch  of  Atlas.  This  poem  is  pecu- 
liarly characteristic  of  his  tastes — wildly  fanciful, 
fiill  of  brilliant  imagery,  and  discanling  human 
interest  and  passion,  to  revel  in  the  fantastic  ideas 
that  his  imagination  suggested. 

The  surpassing  excellence  of  The  Cenci  had 
made  me  greatly  desire  that  Shelley  should 
increase  his  popularity,  by  adopting  subjects  that 
would  more  suit  the  popular  taste,  than  a  poem 
conceived  in  the  abstract  and  dreamy  spirit  of  the 
Witch  of  Atlas.  It  was  not  only  that  I  wished 
him  to  acquire  popularity  as  redounding  to  his 
fame;  but  I  believed  that  he  would  obtain  a 
greater  mastery  over  his  own  powers,  and  greater 
happiness  in  his  mind,  ifpublic  applause  crowned 
his  endeavours.  The  few  stanzas  that  precede 
the  poem  were  addressed  to  me  on  my  represent- 
ing these  ideas  to  him.  Even  now  I  believe  that 
I  was  in  the  right.  Shelley  did  not  expect  sym- 
pathy and  approbation  from  the  public;  but  the 
want  of  it  took  away  a  portion  of  the  ardour  that 
ought  to  have  sustained  him  while  writing.  He 
was  thrown  on  his  own  resources,  and  on  the  in- 
spiration of  his  own  soul,  and  wrote  because  his 
mind  overflowed,  without  the  hope  of  being  appre- 
ciated. I  had  not  the  most  distant  wish  that  he 
should  truckle  in  opinion,  or  submit  his  lofty  aspi- 


306 


EDITOR'S    NOTE    ON    POEMS    OF    182  0, 


rations  for  the  human  race  to  the  low  ambition 
and  pride  of  the  many,  but  I  felt  sure,  that  if  his 
poems  were  more  addressed  to  the  common  feel- 
ings of  men,  his  proper  rank  among  the  writers  of 
the  day  would  be  acknowledged  ;  and  that  popu- 
larity as  a  poet  would  enable  his  countrymen  to 
do  justice  to  his  character  and  \irtucs ;  which,  in 
those  days,  it  was  the  mode  to  attack,  with  the 
most  flagitious  calunmics  and  insulting  abuse. 
That  he  felt  these  things  deeply  cannot  be  doubted, 
though  he  armed  himself  with  the  consciousness 
of  acting  from  a  lofty  and  heroic  sense  of  right. 
The  truth  burst  from  his  heart  sometimes  in  soli- 
tude, and  he  would  write  a  few  unfinished  verses 
that  showed  that  he  felt  the  sting ;  among  such  I 
find  the  foUowuig : 

Alas!  this  is  not  what  I  thought  life  was. 
I  knew  that  there  were  crimes  and  evil  men, 
Misery  and  hate  ;  nor  did  I  hope  to  pass 
Untouched  by  suflering,  through  the  rugged  glen. 
In  mine  own  heart  I  saw  as  in  a  glass 

The  hearts  of  others And  when 

1  went  among  my  kind,  with  triple  brass 
Of  calm  endurance  my  weak  breast  I  armed. 
To  bear  scorn,  fear,  and  hate,  a  woful  mass  ! 

I  beUeved  that  all  this  morbid  fecUng  would 
vanish,  if  the  chord  of  sympathy  between  him  and 
his  countrymen  were  touched.  But  my  persua- 
sions were  vain,  the  mind  could  not  be  bent  from 
its  natural  inclination.  Shelley  shrunk  instinc- 
tively from  portraj'ing  human  passion,  with  its 
mixture  of  good  and  evil,  of  disappointment  and 
disquiet.  Such  opened  again  the  wounds  of  his 
own  heart,  and  he  loved  to  shelter  himself  rather 
in  the  airiest  flights  of  fancy,  forgetting  love  and 
hate,  and  regret  and  lost  hope,  in  such  imagina- 
tions as  borrowed  their  hues  from  sunrise  or  sun- 
set, from  the  yellow  moonshine  or  pale  twilight, 
from  the  aspect  of  the  far  ocean  or  the  shadows  of 
the  woods;  which  celebrated  the  singing  of  the 
•winds  among  the  pines,  the  flow  of  a  murmuring 
stream,  and  the  thousand  harmonious  sounds 
which  nature  creates  in  her  solitudes.  These  are 
the  materials  which  form  the  Witch  of  Atlas ;  it 
is  a  brilliant  congregation  of  ideas,  such  as  his 


senses  gathered,  and   his  fancy  coloured,  during 
his  rambles  in  the  sunny  land  he  so  much  loved. 

Our  stay  at  the  baths  of  San  Giuliano  was 
shortened  by  an  accident.  At  the  foot  of  our 
garden  ran  the  canal  that  communicated  between 
the  Scrchio  and  the  Arno.  The  Scrchio  over- 
flowed its  banks,  and  breaking  its  bounds,  this 
canal  also  overflowed ;  all  this  part  of  the  country 
is  below  the  level  of  its  rivers,  and  the  consequence 
w^s,  that  it  was  speedily  flooded.  The  rising 
waters  filled  the  square  of  the  baths,  in  the  lower 
part  of  which  our  house  was  situated.  The  canal 
overflowed  in  the  garden  behind ;  the  rising  waters 
on  either  side  at  last  biu-st  open  the  doors,  and 
njeeting  in  the  house,  rose  to  the  height  of  six 
feet.  It  was  a  picturesque  sight  at  night,  to  see 
the  peasants  driving  the  cattle  fiom  the  plains 
below,  to  the  hills  above  the  baths.  A  fire  was 
kept  up  to  guide  them  across  the  ford;  and  the 
forms  of  the  men  and  the  animals  showed  in  dark 
relief  against  the  red  glare  of  the  flame,  which  was 
reflected  again  in  the  waters  that  filled  the  square. 

We  then  removed  to  Pisa,  and  took  up  our 
abode  there  for  the  winter.  The  extreme  mild- 
ness of  the  climate  suited  Shelley,  and  his  solitude 
was  enlivened  by  an  intercourse  with  several  iirti- 
mate  fiiends.  Chance  cast  us,  strangely  enough, 
on  this  quiet,  half-unpeopled  town ;  but  its  very 
peace  suited  Shelley, — its  river,  the  near  moun- 
tains, and  not  distant  sea,  added  to  its  attractions, 
and  were  the  objects  of  many  delightful  excursions. 
We  feared  the  south  of  Italy  and  a  hotter  climate, 
on  account  of  our  child ;  our  former  bereavement 
inspiring  us  with  terror.  We  seemed  to  take  root 
here,  and  moved  little  afterwards;  often,  indeed, 
entertaining  projects  for  visiting  other  parts  of 
Italy,  but  still  delaying.  But  for  our  fears,  on  ac- 
count of  our  child,  •!  believe  we  should  have 
wandered  over  the  world,  both  being  passionately 
fond  of  travelling.  But  human  life,  besides  its 
great  unalterable  necessities,  is  ruled  by  a  thou- 
sand liliputian  tics,  that  shackle  at  the  time,  al- 
though it  is  difficult  to  account  afterwards  for  their 
influence  over  our  destiny. 


POEMS  WEITTEA^  IN  MDCCCXXL 


EPIPSYCHIDION: 

VERSES  ADDRESSED  TO  THE  NOBLE  AND  UNFORTUNATE 

LxVDY  EMILIA  V . 

NOW  IMPRISONED  IN  THE  CONVENT  OF  • . 


'V  anima  amante  si  slanria  furio  del  create,  e  si  crea  nel  infinilo  un  Moiido  tutlo  per  essa,  diverse  assai 
da  questo  oscuro  e  pauroso  baratro." — Her  own  words. 


My  Sons,  I  fear  that  thou  wilt  find  but  few 
Who  fitly  shall  conceive  thy  reasoning, 
Of  such  hard  matter  dost  thou  entertain  ; 
Whence,  if  by  misadventure,  chance  should  bring 
Thee  to  base  company  (as  chance  may  do,) 
Quite  unaware  of  what  thou  dost  contain, 
I  prithee  comfort  thy  sweet  self  again, 
My  last  delight !  tell  them  that  they  are  dull, 
And  bid  them  own  that  thou  art  beautiful. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

The  writer  of  the  following  lines  died  at  Flo- 
rence, as  he  was  preparing  for  a  vojage  to  one  of 
the  wildest  of  the  Sporades,  which  he  had  bought, 
and  where  he  had  fitted  up  the  ruins  of  an  old 
building,  and  where  it  was  his  hope  to  have  real- 
ized a  scheme  of  life  suited  perhaps  to  that  happier 
and  better  world  of  which  he  is  an  inhabitant,  but 
hardly  practicable  in  this.  His  life  was  singular ; 
less  on  account  of  the  romantic  vicissitudes  which 
diversified  it,  than  the  ideal  tinge  which  it  received 
from  his  own  character  and  feelings.  The  present 
Poem,  like  the  Vita  Nuova  of  Dante,  is  sutficicntly 
intelligible  to  a  certain  class  of  readers  without  a 
matter-of-fact  history  of  the  circumstances  to  which 
it  relates ;  and  to  a  certain  other  class  it  must  ever 


remain  incomprehensible,  from  a  defect  of  a  com- 
mon organ  of  perception  for  the  ideas  of  which  it 
treats.  Not  but  that,  gran  vergogna  sarebbe  a 
cohti,  die  rimasse  cosa  sotto  teste  dijigura,  o  di 
colore  rettorko :  e  domunduto  non  sapesse  denu- 
dare  le  sue  parole  da  cotul  veste,  ia  guisa  che 
avessero  verace  intendiniento. 

The  present  poem  appears  to  have  been  in- 
tended by  the  writer  as  the  dedication  to  some 
longer  one.  The  stanza  on  the  above  page  is 
almost  a  literal  translation  from  Dante's  famous 
canzone 

Voi  cW  infcndcnJo,  il  terzo  del  movtte,  &c. 
The  presumptuous  application  of  the  concluding 
lines  to  hi^own  composition  will  raise  a  smile  at 
the  expense   of  my  unfortunate  friend:    be  it  a 
smile  not  of  contempt,  but  pity. 


307 


308 


POEMS    WRITTEN    IN    18  2  1. 


EPIPSYCHIDION. 


SwT.ET  Spirit !  Sister  of  that  orphiin  one, 
Whose  empire  is  the  name  thou  wcepcst  on, 
In  my  heart's  temple  I  suspend  to  thee 
Tliesc  votive  wreatlis  of  withered  memory. 

Poor  captive  bird  !  who,  from  thy  narrow  cage, 
Pourest  such  music,  that  it  might  assuage 
The  rugged  hearts  of  those  who  prisoned  thee, 
Were  they  not  deaf  to  all  sweet  melody ; 
This  song  shall  be  thy  rose :  its  petals  pale 
Are  dead,  indeed,  my  adored  Nightingale! 
But  sotl  and  fragrant  is  the  faded  blossom, 
And  it  has  no  thorn  left  to  wound  thy  bosom. 

High,  spirit-winged  Heart !  -who  dost  for  ever 
Beat  thme  unfeeling  bars  with  vain  endeavour. 
Till    those  bright    plumes  of  thought,  in  which 

arraj'ed 
It  oversoared  this  low  and  worldly  shade. 
Lie  shattered ;  and  thy  panting  wounded  breast 
Stains  with  dear  blood  its  unmaternal  nest! 
I  weep  vain  tears :  blood  would  less  bitter  be. 
Yet  poured  forth  gladlier,  could  it  profit  thee. 

Seraph  of  Heaven  !  too  gentle  to  be  human. 
Veiling  beneath  that  radiant  form  of  Woman 
All  that  is  insupportable  in  thee 
Of  light,  and  love,  and  immortality  ! 
Sweet  Benediction  in  the  eternal  Curse  ! 
Veiled  glory  of  this  lampless  Universe  ! 
Thou   Moon  beyond    the  clouds!     Thou    livgag 

Form 
Among  the  Dead  !    Thou  Star  above  the  Storm  ! 
Thou  Wonder,  and  thou  Beauty,  and  thou  Terror ! 
Thou  Harmony  of  Nature's  art !    Thou  Mhror 
In  whom,  as  in  the  splendour  of  the  Sun, 
All  shapes  look  glorious  which  thou  gazest  on ! 
Ay,  even  the  dim  words  wliich  obscure  thee  now 
Flash,  lightning-like,  with  unaccustomed  glow ; 
I  pray  thee  that  thou  blot  from  this  sad  song 
All  of  its  much  mortality  and  wrong, 
With  those  clear  drops,  which  start  like  sacred  dew 
From   the    twin   lights   thy   sweet   soul   darkens 

through, 
Weeping,  till  sorrow  becomes  ecstacy : 
Tlien  smile  on  it,  so  that  it  may  not  diS. 

I  never  thought  before  my  death  to  see 
Youth's  vision  thus  made  perfect:  Emily, 
I  love  thee ;  though  the  world  by  no  thin  name 
Will  hide  that  love,  fi-om  its  unvalued  shame. 
Would  wo  two  had  been  twins  of  the  same  mother ! 
Or,  that  the  name  my  heart  lent  to  another 
Could  be  a  sister's  bond  for  her  and  thee, 
Blending  two  beams  of  one  eternity  ! 
Yet  were  one  lawful  and  the  other  true, 
These  names,  though  dear,  could  i)aint  not,  as  is  due, 
How  beyond  refuge  I  am  thine.     Ah  me ! 
I  am  not  thine :  I  am  a  part  of  titee. 


Sweet  Lamp  !   my  mothlike  Muse  has  burnt  its 
wings. 
Or,  like  a  dying  swan  who  soars  and  sings. 
Young  Love  should  teach  Time,  in  his  own  gray 

style, 
All  that  thou  art.     Art  thou  not  void  of  guile, 
A  lovely  soul  formed  to  be  blest  and  bless  1 
A  well  of  sealed"  and  secret  happiness, 
Whose  waters  like  blithe  light  and  music  are, 
Vanquishing  dissonance  and  gloom]    A  Star 
Which  moves  not  in  the  moving  Heavens,  alone  1 
A  smile  amid  dark  frowns  ?   a  gentle  tone 
Amid  rude  voices  ?   a  beloved  light  1 
A  Solitude,  a  Refuge,  a  Delight  ] 
A  lute,  which  those  whom  love  has  taught  to  play 
Make  music  on,  to  soothe  the  roughest  day 
And  lull  fond  grief  asleep  1   a  buried  treasure  ? 
A  cradle  of  young  thoughts  of  wingless  pleasure  ? 
A  violet-shrouded  grave  of  Wo  1 — I  measure 
The  world  of  fancies,  seeking  one  hke  thee, 
And  find — ^alas  !  mine  own  infirmity. 

She  met  me.  Stranger,  upon  life's  rough  way, 
And  lured  me  towards  sweet  Death  ;   as  Night  by 

Day, 
Winter  by  Spring,  or  Sorrow  by  swift  Hope, 
Led  into  light,  life,  peace.     An  antelope, 
In  the  suspended  impulse  of  its  lightness, 
Were  less  ethereally  light :  the  brightness 
Of  her  divinest  presence  trembles  through 
Her  limbs,  as  underneath  a  cloud  of  dew 
Embodied  in  the  windless  heaven  of  June, 
Amid  the  splendour-winged  stars,  the  Moon 
Burns  inextinguishably  beautiful : 
And  from  her  lips,  as  from  a  hyacinth  full 
Of  honeydew,  a  liquid  murmur  drops. 
Killing  the  sense  with  passion  :  sweet  as  stops 
Of  planetary  music  heard  in  trance. 
In  her  mild  lights  the  starry  spirits  dance. 
The  sunbeams  of  those  wells  which  ever  leap 
Under  the  lightnings  of  the  soul — too  deep 
For  the  brief  fathom-line  of  thought  or  sense. 
The  glory  of  her  being,  issuing  thence, 
Stains  the  dead,  blank  cold  air  with  a  warm  shade 
Of  unentangled  intermixture,  made 
By  Love,  of  light  and  motion  ;  one  intense 
DifTusion,  one  serene  Onmipresence, 
Whose  flowing  outlines  mingle  in  their  flowing 
Around  her  clioeks  and  utmost  fingers  glowing 
With  the  unintermitted  blood,  which  there 
Quivers,  (as  in  a  fleece  of  snowlike  air 
The  crimson  pulse  of  living  morning  quiver,) 
Continuously  prolonged,  and  ending  never, 
Till  they  are  lost,  and  in  that  Beauty  furled 
Which  jicnetrates  and  clasps  and  fills  the  world; 
Scarce  visible  from  extreme  loveliness. 
Warm  fragrance  seems  to  fall  from  her  light  dress. 
And  her  loose  hair ;  and  where  some  heavy  tress 


EPIPSYCHIDION. 


309 


The  air  of  her  own  speed  has  disentwined, 

The  sweetness  seems  to  satiate  the  faint  wind ; 

And  in  the  soul  a  wild  odour  is  felt, 

Beyond  the  sense,  like  fiery  dews  that  melt 

Into  the  hosom  of  a  frozen  hud. 

See  where  she  stands !  a  mortal  sliapc  indued 

With  love  and  life  and  lii,dit  and  ileity. 

And  motion  which  may  ehamie  but  cannot  die ; 

An  image  of  some  brii^ht  Eternity  ; 

A  shadow  of  some  golden  dream  ;  a  Splendour 

Leaving  the  third  sphere  pilotless;  a  tender' 

Reflection  on  the  eternal  Moon  of  Love, 

Under  whose  motions  life's  dull  billows  move ; 

A  Metaphor  of  Spring  and  Youth  and  Morning ; 

A  vision  like  incarnate  April,  warning, 

With  smiles  and  tears,  Frost  the  Anatomy 

Lito  his  summer  grave. 

Ah !  wo  is  me  ! 
What  have  I  dared  1  where  am  I  lifted  ?   how 
Shall  I  descend,  and  perish  not  ?   I  know 
That  Love  makes  all  things  equal :  I  have  heard 
By  mine  own  heart  this  joyous  truth  averred : 
The  spirit  of  the  worm  beneath  the  sod, 
In  love  and  worship  blends  itself  with  God. 

Spouse !  Sister !  Angel !    Pilot  of  the  Fate 
Whose  course  has  been  so  starless !  0  too  late 
Beloved  !  O  too  soon  adored,  by  me  ! 
For  in  the  fields  of  immortality 
My  spirit  should  at  first  have  worshipped  thine, 
A  div-ine  presence  in  a  place  divine ; 
Or  should  have  moved  beside  it  on  this  earth, 
A  shadow  of  that  substance,  from  its  birth  ; 
But  not  as  now  : — I  love  thee  ;  yes,  I  feel 
That  on  the  fountain  of  my  Heart  a  seal 
Is  set,  to  keep  its  waters  pure  and  bright 
For  thee,  since  in  those  tears  thou  hast  delight. 
We — are  we  not  formed,  as  notes  of  music  are, 
For  one  another,  though  dissimilar ; 
Such  difference  without  discord,  as  can  make 
Those  sweetest  sounds,  in  which  all  spirits  shake. 
As  trembling  leaves  in  a  continuous  air  % ' 

Thy  wisdom  speaks  in  me,  and  bids  me  dare 
Beacon  the  rocks  on  which  high  hearts  are  wrcckt. 
I  never  was  attached  to  that  great  sect. 
Whose  doctrine  is,  that  each  one  should  select 
Out  of  the  crowd  a  mistress  or  a  friend, 
And  all  the  rest,  though  fair  and  wise,  commend 
To  cold  oblivion,  though  it  is  in  the  code 
Of  modern  morals,  and  the  beaten  road 
Which  those  poor  slaves  with  weaiy  footsteps  tread, 
Who  travel  to  their  home  among  the  dead 
By  the  broad  highway  of  the  world,  and  so 
With  one  chained  friend,  perhaps  a  jealous  foe. 
The  dreariest  and  the  longest  journey  go. 

True  Love  in  this  differs  from  gold  and  clay, 
That  to  divide  is  not  to  take  away. 
Love  is  like  understanding,  that  grows  bright. 
Gazing  on  many  truths ;  'tis  like  thy  light. 
Imagination  !  which,  from  earth  and  sky. 
And  from  the  depths  of  human  phantasy. 
As  from  a  thousand  prisms  and  mirrors,  fills 
The  Universe  with  glorious  beams,  and  kills 


Error,  the  worm,  with  many  a  sunlike  arrow 
Of  its  reverberated  lightning.     Nan-ow 
The  heart  that  loves,  the  brain  that  contcmi)lates, 
The  life  that  wears,  the  spirit  that  creates 
One  object,  and  one  form,  and  builds  thereby 
A  sepulchre  for  its  eternity. 

Mine  from  its  object  differs  most  in  this: 
Evil  from  good;  misery  from  happiness; 
The  baser  from  the  nobler;  the  impure 
And  frail,  from  what  is  clear  and  must  endure. 
If  you  divide  suffering  and  dross,  you  may 
Diminish  till  it  is  consumed  away ; 
If  j'ou  divide  pleasure  and  love  and  thought, 
Each  part  exceeds  the  whole  ;  and  we  know  not 
How  much,  while  any  yet  remains  unshared. 
Of  {)Ieasure  may  be  gained,  of  sorrow  spared : 
This  truth  is  that  deep  well,  whence  sages  draw 
The  unenvied  light  of  hope  ;  the  eternal  law 
By  which  those  live,  to  whom  this  world  of  life 
Is  as  a  garden  ravaged,  and  whose  strife 
Tills  for  the  promise  of  a  later  birth 
The  wilderness  of  this  Elysian  earth. 

There  was  a  being  whom  my  spirit  oft 
Met  on  its  visioned  wanderings,  far  aloft. 
In  the  clear  golden  prime  of  my  youth's  dawn, 
Upon  the  fairy  isles  of  sunny  lawn, 
Amid  the  enchanted  mountains,  and  the  caves 
Of  divine  sleep,  and  on  the  airlike  waves 
Of  wonder-level  dream,  whose  tremulous  floor 
Paved  her  light  steps ; — on  an  imagined  shore. 
Under  the  gray  beak  of  some  promontory 
She  met  me,  robed  in  such  exceeding  glory, 
That  I  beheld  her  not.     In  solitudes 
Hervoicecame  to  me  through  the  whispering  woods, 
And  from  the  fountains,  and  the  odours  deep 
Of  flowers,  which,  like  lips  murmuring  in  their  sleep 
Of  the  sweet  kisses  which  had  lulled  them  there, 
Breathed  but  of  her  to  the  enamoured  air ; 
And  from  the  breezes  whether  low  or  loud, 
And  from  the  rain  of  every  passing  cloud. 
And  from  the  singing  of  the  summer  birds, 
And  from  all  sounds,  all  silence.     In  the  words 
Of  antique  verse  and  high  romance, — in  form, 
Sound,  colour — in  whatever  checks  that  Storm 
Which  with  the  shattered  present  chokes  the  past; 
And  in  tliat  best  philosophy,  whose  taste 
Makes  this  cold  common  hell,  our  life,  a  doom 
As  glorious  as  a  fiery  martyrdom ; 
Her  Spuit  was  the  harmony  of  truth. — 

Then,  from  the  caverns  of  my  dreamy  youth 
I  sprang,  as  one  sandalled  with  {)lumes  of  fire, 
And  towards  the  loadstar  of  my  own  desire, 
I  flitted,  lil<e  a  dizzy  moth,  whose  flight 
Is  as  a  dead  leaf's  in  the  owlet  light, 
When  it  woidd  seek  in  Hesper's  setting  sphere 
A  radiant  death,  a  fiery  sepulchre. 
As  if  it  were  a  lamp  of  earthly  flaane. — 
But  She,  whom  prayers  or  tears  then  could  not  tame, 
Past,  like  a  God  throned  on  a  winged  planet, 
Whose  burning  plumes  to  tenfold  swiftness  fan  it, 
Into  the  drear)'  cone  of  our  life's  shade  ; 
And  as  a  man  with  mighty  loss  dismayed. 


310 


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I  would  have  followed,  though  the  grave  between 
Yawned  like  a  gulf  whose  sjjcrtrcs  arc  unseen: 
When   a  voice   said : — "  0   Thou   of   hearts  the 

weakest, 
The  phantom  is  beside  thee  whom  tliou  seekcst." 
Then  I — "Where!"  the  world's  echo  answered 

"  where  !"' 
And  in  that  silence,  and  in  my  despair, 
I  questioned  every  ton^aiek'ss  wind  tliat  flew 
Over  my  tower  of  mourning,  if  it  knew 
Whither  'twas  fled,  this  soul  out  of  my  soul ; 
And  murmured   names  and    spells  which    have 

control 
Over  the  sightless  tyrants  of  our  fate  ; 
But  neither  prayer  nor  verse  could  dissipate 
The  niirht  which  closed  on  her  ;  nor  uncreate 
That  world  within  this  Chaos,  mine  and  me, 
Of  which  she  was  the  veiled  Divinity, 
The  world  I  say  of  thoughts  that  worshipped  her : 
And  therefore  I  went  forth,  with  hope  and  fear. 
And  every  gentle  passion  sick  to  death, 
Feeding  my  course  with  expectation's  breath, 
Into  the  wintry  forest  of  our  life ; 
And  struggling  through  its  error  with  vain  strife, 
And  stumbHng  in  my  weakness  and  my  haste, 
And  half  bewildered  l)y  new  forms,  I  past 
Seeking  among  those  untaught  foresters 
If  I  could  find  one  form  resembling  hers. 
In  which  she  might  have  masked  herself  from  me. 
There, — One,  whose  voice  was  venomed  melody 
Sate  by  a  well,  under  blue  nightshade  bowers  ; 
The   breath   of  her  false   mouth   was  like   faint 

flowers. 
Her  touch  was  as  electric  poison, — flame 
Out  of  her  looks  into  my  vitals  came. 
And  from  her  living  cheeks  and  bosom  flew 
A  killing  air,  which  pierced  like  honeydew 
Into  the  core  of  my  green  heart,  and  lay 
Upon  its  leaves ;  until,  as  hair  grown  gray 
O'er  a  young  brow,  they  hid  its  unblown  prime 
With  ruins  of  unseasonable  time. 

In  many  mortal  forms,  I  rashly  sought 
The  shadow  of  that  idol  of  my  thought. 
And  some  were  fair — but  beauty  dies  away : 
Others  were  wise — but  honeyed  words  betray: 
And  One  was  true — oh  !  why  not  true  to  me  1 
Then,  as  a  hunted  deer  that  could  not  flee, 
I  turned  upon  my  thoughts,  and  stood  at  bay. 
Wounded,  and  weak,  and  panting;  the  cold  day 
Trembled,  for  pity  of  my  strife  and  pain. 
When,  like  a  noonday  dawn,  there  shone  again 
Deliverance.     One  stood  on  my  path  who  seemed 
As  like  the  glorious  shape  which  I  had  dreamed, 
As  is  the  Moon,  whose  changes  ever  run 
Into  themselves,  to  the  eternal  Sun ; 
The  cold  chaste  Moon,  the  Queen  of  Heaven's 

bright  isles, 
Who  makes  all  beautiful  on  which  she  smiles. 
That  wandering  shrine  of  soft  yet  icy  flame 
Which  ever  is  transformed,  yet  sliil  the  same. 
And  warms  not  but  illumines.     Young  and  fair 
As  the  descended  Spirit  of  that  sphere. 
She  hid  me,  as  the  Moon  may  hide  the  night 
From  its  own  darkness,  until  all  was  bright 


Between  the  Heaven  and  Earth  of  my  calm  mind, 
And,  as  a  cloud  charioted  bj-  the  wind. 
She  led  me  to  a  cave  in  that  wild  place. 
And  sat  beside  me,  with  her  downward  face 
Illumining  my  slumbers,  like  the  Moon 
Waxing  and  waning  o'er  Endymion. 
And  I  was  laid  asleep,  spirit  and  limb. 
And  all  my  being  became  bright  or  dim 
As  the  Moon's  image  in  a  sunnner  sea. 
According  as  she  smiled  or  frowned  on  me ; 
And  there  I  lay,  within  a  chaste  cold  bed :  ' 
Alas,  I  then  was  nor  alive  nor  dead : — 
For  at  her  silver  voice  came  Death  and  Life, 
Unmindful  each  of  their  accustomed  strife. 
Masked  like  twin  babes,  a  sister  and  a  brother, 
The  wandering  hopes  of  one  abandoned  mother, 
And  through  the  cavern  without  wings  they  flew, 
And  cried,  "  Away  !  he  is  not  of  our  crew." 
I  wept,  and,  though  it  be  a  dream,  I  weep. 

What  storms  then  shook  the  ocean  of  my  sleep, 
Blotting  that  Moon,  whose  pale  and  waning  lips 
Then  shrank  as  in  the  sickness  of  eclipse ; — 
And  how  my  soul  was  as  a  lampless  sea. 
And  who  was  then  its  Tempest;  and  when  She 
The  Planet  of  that  hour,  was  quenched,  what  frost 
Crept  o'er  those  waters,  till  from  coast  to  coast 
The  moving  billows  of  my  being  fell 
Into  a  death  of  ice,  immovable ; —  [split. 

And  then — what  earthquakes  made  it  gape  and 
The  white  Moon  smiling  all  the  while  on  it. 
These  words  conceal : — If  not,  each  word  would  be 
The  key  of  staunchless  tears.     Weep  not  for  me  ! 

At  length,  into  the  the  obscure  forest  came 
The  vision  I  had  sought  through  grief  and  shame. 
Athwart  that  wintry  wilderness  of  thorns 
Flashed  from  her  motion  splendour  like  the  Mom's, 
And  from  her  presence  life  was  radiated 
Through  the  gi'ay  earth  and  branches  bare  and  dead  ; 
So  that  her  way  was  paved,  and  roofed  above 
W^ith  flowers  as  soft  as  thoughts  of  budding  love : 
And  music  from  her  respiration  spread 
Like  light, — all  other  sounds  were  penetrated 
By  the  small,  still,  sweet  sjiirit  of  that  sound. 
So  that  the  savage  winds  bung  mute  around ; 
And  odours  warm  and  fresh  fell  from  her  hair 
Dissolving  the  dull  cold  in  the  froze  air  : 
Soft  as  an  Incarnation  of  the  Sun, 
When  linht  is  changed  to  love,  this  glorious  One 
Floated  into  the  cavern  where  I  lay. 
And  called  my  Spirit,  and  the  dreaming  clay 
Was  lifted  by  the  thing  that  dreamed  below 
As  smoke  by  fire,  and  in  her  beauty's  glow 
I  stood,  and  felt  the  dawn  of  my  long  night 
Was  jienetrating  me  with  living  light ; 
I  knew  it  was  the  Vision  veiled  from  me 
So  many  years — that  it  was  Emily. 

Thin   Spheres  of  light  who  rule  this  passive 
Earth, 
This  world  of  love,  this  me ,-   and  into  birth 
Awaken  all  its  fruits  and  flowers,  and  dart 
Magnetic  might  into  its  central  heart; 
And  lift  its  billows  and  its  mists,  and  guide 
By  everlasting  laws  each  wind  and  tide 


E  P  IP  S  Y  C  H I D I O  N. 


311 


To  its  fit  cloud,  and  its  appointed  caye ; 
And  lull  its  storms,  each  in  the  crafftry  stave 
Which  was  its  cradle,  luriiic;  to  faint  bowers 
The  armies  of  the  rainbow-winced  showers  ; 
And.  as  those  married  licrhts,  which  from  the  towers 
Of  Heaven  look  forth  and  fold  the  wandering  globe 
I    In  liquid  sleep  and  splendour,  as  a  robe  ; 
And  all  their  many-mingled  influence  blend, 
If  ccpial,  yet  unlike,  to  one  sweet  end ; — 
So  ye,  bright  regents,  with  alternate  sway, 
Govern  my  sphere  of  being,  night  and  day  ! 
Thou,  not  disdaining  even  a  borrowed  might ; 
Thou,  not  eclipsing  a  remoter  light ; 
And,  through  the  shadow  of  the  seasons  three, 
From  Spring  to  Autumn's  sere  maturity, 
Light  it  into  the  Winter  of  the  tomb. 
Where  it  may  ripen  to  a  brighter  bloom. 
Thou  too,  O  Comet,  beautiful  and  fierce, 
W'ho  drew  the  heart  of  this  frail  Universe 
Towards  thine  own ;  till,  wreckt  in  that  convulsion, 
Alternating  attraction  and  repulsion. 
Thine  went  astray,  and  that  was  rent  in  twain ; 
Oh,  float  into  our  azure  heaven  again ; 
Be  there  love's  folding-star  at  thy  return ; 
The  linng  Sun  will  feed  thee  from  its  urn 
Of  golden  fire ;   the  Moon  will  veil  her  horn 
In  thy  last  smiles;  adoring  Even  and  Morn 
AVill  worship  thee  with  incense  of  calm  breath 
And  lights  and  shadow-s ;  as  the  star  of  Death 
And  Birth  is  worshipped  by  those  sisters  wild 
Called  Hope  and  Fear — upon  the  heart  are  piled 
Their  offerings, — of  this  sacrifice  divine 
A  World  shall  be  the  altar. 

Lad\-  mine, 
Scorn  not  these  flowers  of  thought,  the  fading  birth 
Which  from  its  heart  of  hearts  that  plant  puts  forth, 
W^hose  fruit,  made  perfect  by  thy  sunny  eyes. 
Will  be  as  of  the  trees  of  Paradise. 

The  day  is  come  and  thou  wilt  fly  with  me. 
To  whatsoe'er  of  dull  mortality 
Is  mine,  remain  a  vestal  sister  still ; 
To  the  intense,  the  deep,  the  imperishable, 
Not  mine,  but  me,  henceforth  be  thou  united 
Even  as  a  bride,  delighting  and  delighted. 
The  hour  is  come ; — the  destined  Star  has  risen 
Which  shall  descend  upon  a  vacant  prison. 
The  walls  are  high,  the  gates  are  strong,  thickset 
The  sentinels — but  true  love  never  yet 
Was  thus  constrained :  it  overleaps  all  fence : 
Like  lightning,  with  invisible  ■siolence 
Piercing  its  continents ;  like  Heaven's  free  breath, 
Which  he  who  grasps  can  hold  not ;  liker  Death, 
Who  rides  upon  a  thought,  and  makes  his  way 
Through  temple,  tower,  and  palace,  and  the  array 
Of  arms  :  more  strength  has  Love  than  he  or  they; 
For  he  can  burst  his  charjiel,  and  make  free 
The  limbs  in  chains,  the  heart  in  agony. 
The  soul  in  dust  and  chaos. 

Emily, 
A  ship  is  floating  in  the  harbour  now, 
A  wind  is  hovering  o'er  the  mountain's  brow; 
There  is  a  path  on  the  sea's  azure  floor. 
No  keel  has  ever  ploughed  that  j)ath  before ; 
The  halcyons  brood  around  the  foamless  isles; 
The  treacherous  Ocean  has  forsworn  its  wiles; 


The  merry  mariners  are  bold  and  free : 

Say,  my  sister's  heart,  wilt  thou  sail  with  me  ? 

Our  bark  is  as  an  albatross,  whose  nest 

Is  a  far  Eden  of  the  purple  East; 

And  we  between  her  wings,  will  sit,  while  Night, 

And  Day,  and  Storm,   and    Calm,   pursue    their 

fl'ight. 
Our  ministers,  along  the  boundless  Sea, 
Treading  each  other's  heels,  unheededly. 
It  is  an  isle  under  Ionian  skies. 
Beautiful  as  a  wreck  of  Paradise, 
And,  for  the  harbours  are  not  safe  and  good, 
This  larid  would  have  remained  a  solitude 
But  for  some  pastoral  people  native  there. 
Who  from  the  Elysian,  clear,  and  golden  air 
Draw  the  last  spirit  of  the  age  of  gold, 
Simple  and  spirited  ;  innocent  and  bold. 
The  blue  .rEgean  girds  this  chosen  home, 
With  everchanging  sound  and  light  and  foam, 
Kissing  the  sifted  sands,  and  caverns  hoar  ; 
And  all  the  winds  wandering  along  the  shore 
Undulate  with  the  undulating  tide  : 
There  are  thick  woods  where  sylvan  forms  abide  ; 
And  many  a  fountain,  rivulet,  and  pond. 
As  clear  as  elemental  diamond. 
Or  serene  morning  air;  and  far  beyond. 
The  mossy  tracks  made  by  the  goats  and  deer 
(Which  the  rough  shepherd  treads  but  once  a  year,) 
Pierce  into  glades,  caverns,  and  bowers,  and  halls 
Built  round  with  ivy,  which  the  water  falls 
Illumining,  with  sound  that  never  fails. 
Accompany  the  noonday  nightingales; 
And  all  the  place  is  peopled  with  sweet  airs, 
The  light  clear  element  which  the  isle  wears 
Is  heav3'  with  the  scent  of  lemon-flowers. 
Which  floats  like  mist  laden  with  unseen  showers, 
And  falls  upon  the  eyelids  like  faint  sleep ; 
And  from  the  moss  ^iolets  and  jonquils  peep. 
And  dart  their  arrowy  odour  through  the  brain 
Till  you  might  faint  with  that  delicious  pain. 
And  every  motion,  odour,  beam,  and  tone. 
With  that  deep  music  is  in  unison  : 
Which  is  a  soul  within  a  soul — they  seem 
Like  echoes  of  an  antenatal  dream. — 
It  is  an  isle  'twixt  Heaven,  Air,  Earth,  and  Sea, 
Cradled,  and  hung  in  clear  tranquillity  ; 
Bright  as  that  wandering  Eden  Lucifer, 
Washed  by  the  soft  blue  Ocean  of  young  air. 
It  is  a  favoured  place.     Famine  or  Blight, 
Pestilence,  War,  and  Earthquake,  never  light 
Upon  its  mountain-peaks ;  blind  vultures,  they 
Sail  onward  far  upon  their  fatal  way  : 
The  winged  storms,  chaunting  their  thunder-psalm 
To  other  lands,  leave  azure  chasms  of  calm 
Over  this  isle,  or  weep  themselves  in  dew. 
From  which  its  fields  and  woods  ever  renew 
Their  green  and  golden  immortahty. 
And  from  the  sea  there  rise,  and  from  the  sky 
There  fall  clear  exhalations,  sotl  and  bright, 
Veil  after  veil,  each  hiding  some  delight. 
Which  Sun  or  Moon  or  zephyr  draw  aside. 
Till  the  isle's  beauty,  like  a  naked  bride 
Glowing  all  at  once  with  love  and  loveliness, 
Blushes  and  trembles  at  its  owti  excess  : 
Yet,  like  a  buried  lamp,  a  Soul  no  less 


312 


POEMS    WRITTEN    IN    1821. 


Bums  in  the  heart  of  this  delicious  isle, 

An  atom  of  the  Eternal,  whose  own  smile 

Unfolds  itself,  and  may  be  felt  not  seen 

O'er  the  gray  rocks,  blue  waves,  and  forests  green, 

Filling  their  bare  and  void  interstices. — 

But  the  chief  marvel  of  the  wilderness 

Is  a  lone  dwelling,  built  by  whom  or  how 

None  of  the  rustic  island-people  know ; 

'Tis  not  a  tower  of  strength,  though  with  its  height 

It  overtops  the  woods;  but,  for  dehght. 

Some  wise  and  tender  Ocean  King,  ere  crime 

Had  been  invented,  in  the  world's  young  prime, 

Reared  it,  a  wonder  of  that  simple  time, 

An  envy  of  the  isles,  a  pleasure-house 

Made  sacred  to  his  sister  and  his  spouse, 

It  scarce  seems  now  a  wreck  of  human  art, 

But,  as  it  were.  Titanic;  in  the  heart 

Of  Earth  having  assumed  its  form,  then  grown 

Out  of  the  mountains,  frOm  the  living  stone, 

Lifting  itself  in  caverns  light  and  high  : 

For  all  the  antique  and  learned  imagery 

Has  been  erased,  and  in  the  place  of  it 

The  ivy  and  the  wild  vine  interknit 

The  volumes  of  their  many -twining  stems ; 

Parasite  flowers  illumine  with  dewy  gems 

The  lampless  halls,  and  when  they  fide,  the  sky 

Peeps  through  their  winter-woof  of  tracery 

With  moonlight  patches,  or  star  atoms  keen, 

Or  fragments  of  the  day's  intense  serene ; 

Working  mosaic  on  their  Parian  floors. 

And,  day  and  night,  aloof,  from  the  high  towers 

And  terraces,  the  Earth  and  Ocean  seem 

To  sleep  in  one  another's  arms,  and  dream       [we 

Of  waves,  flowery  clouds,  woods,  rocks,  and  all  that 

Read  in  their  smiles,  and  call.rea,lity. 

This  isle  and  house  are  mine,  and  I  have  vowed 
Thee  to  be  lady  of  the  sohtude. 
And  I  have  fittted  up  some  chambers  there 
Looking  towards  the  golden  Eastern  air. 
And  level  with  the  living  winds,  which  flow 
Like  waves  above  the  living  waves  below, 
I  have  sent  books  and  music  there,  and  all 
Those  instruments  with  which  liigh  spirits  call 
The  future  from  its  cradle,  and  the  past 
Out  of  its  grave,  and  make  the  present  last 
In  thoughts  and  joys  which  sleep,  but  cannot  die, 
Folded  within  their  own  eternity. 
Our  simple  life  wants  little,  and  true  taste 
Hires  not  the  pale  drudge  Luxury  to  waste 
The  scene  it  would  adorn,  and  therefore  still. 
Nature,  with  all  her  children,  haunts  the  hill. 
The  ringdove,  in  the  embowering  ivy,  yet 
Keeps  up  her  love-lament,  and  the  owls  flit 
Round  the  even  ing  tower,  and  the  young  stars  glance 
Between  the  quick  bats  in  their  twilight  dance ; 
The  spotted  deer  bask  in  the  fresh  moonlight 
Before  our  gate,  and  the  slow  silent  night 
Is  measured  by  the  pants  of  their  calm  sleep. 
Be  this  our  home  in  life,  and  when  years  heap 
Their  withered  hours,  like  leaves,  on  our  decay, 
Let  us  become  the  overhanging  day, 
The  living  soul  of  this  Elysian  isle. 
Conscious,  inseparable,  one.     Meanwhile 
We  two  will  rise,  and  sit,  and  walk  together, 
Under  the  roof  of  blue  Ionian  weather. 


And  wander  in  the  meadows,  or  ascend 

The  mossy  mountains,  where  the  blue  heavens 

bend 
With  lightest  w-inds,  to  touch  their  paramour 
Or  linger,  where  the  pebble-paven  shore. 
Under  the  quick  faint  kisses  of  the  sea 
Trembles  and  sparkles  as  with  ecstucy, — 
Possessing  and  possest  by  all  that  is 
Within  that  calm  circumference  of  bliss, 
And  by  each  other,  till  to  love  and  live 
Be  one : — or,  at  the  noontide  hour,  arrive 
Where  some  old  cavern  hoar  seems  yet  to  keep 
The  moonlight  of  the  expired  night  asleep, 
Through  which  the  awakened  day  can  never  peep ; 
A  veil  for  our  seclusion,  close  as  Night's, 
Where  secure  sleep  may  lull  thine  innocent  lights ; 
Sleep,  the  fresh  dew  of  languid  love,  the  rain 
Whose  drops  quench  kisses  till  they  burn  again. 
And  we  will  talk,  until  thought's  melody 
Become  too  sweet  for  utterance,  and  it  die 
In  words,  to  live  again  in  looks,  which  dart 
With  thrilling  tone  into  the  voiceless  heart, 
Harmonizing  silence  without  a  sound. 
Our  breath  shall  intermix,  our  bosoms  bound, 
And  our  veins  beat  together  ;  and  our  lips. 
With  other  eloquence  than  words,  eclipse 
The    soul    that  burns  between  them;    and   the 

wells 
Which  boil  under  our  being's  inmost  cells, 
The  fountains  of  our  deepest  hfe,  shall  be 
Confused  in  passion's  golden  purity. 
As  mountain-springs  under  the  morning  Sun. 
We  shall  become  the  same,  we  shall  be  one 
Spirit  within  two  frames,  oh  !  wherefore  two  1 
One  passion  in  twin-hearts,  which  grows  and  grew 
Till  like  two  meteors  of  expanding  flame. 
Those  sphtres  instinct  with  it  become  the  same, 
Touch,  mingle,  are  transfigured  ;  ever  still 
Burning,  yet  ever  inconsumable  : 
In  one  another's  substance  finding  food. 
Like  flames  too  pure  and  light  and  unimbucd 
To  nourish  their  bright  lives  with  baser  prey 
Which  point  to  Heaven  and  cannot  pass  away  : 
One  hope  within  two  wills,  one  will  beneath 
Two  overshadowing  minds,  one  life  one  death, 
One  Heaven,  one  Hell,  one  immortality, 
And  one  annihilation.     Wo  is  me  ! 
The  winged  words  on  which  my  soul  "would  pierce 
Into  the  height  of  love's  rare  Universe, 
Are  chains  of  lead  around  its  flight  of  fire. — 
I  pant,  I  sink,  I  tremble,  I  expire  ! 


Weak  verses,  go,  kneel  at  your  Sovereign's  feet. 
And  say  : — "  We  are  the  masters  of  thy  slave  ; 
«  What  wouldest  thou  with  us  and  ours  and  thine  1" 
Then  call  your  sisters  from  Oblivion's  cave. 
All  singing  loud :  "  Love's  very  pain  is  sweet. 
But  its  reward  is  in  the  world  divine, 
Which,  if  not  here,  it  builds  beyond  the  grave." 
So  shall  ye  live  when  I  am  there.     Then  haste 
Over  the  hearts  of  men,  mitil  ye  meet 
Marina,  Yanna,  Primus,  and  the  rest, 
And  bid  them  love  each  other,  and  be  blest : 
And  leave  the  troop  which  errs,  and  which  reproves, 
And  come  and  be  my  guest, — for  I  am  Love's. 


ADO?s^\IS: 


AN  ELEGY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHN  KEATS. 

AUTHOR   OF    ENDYMIO^r,    HYrEraON,    ETC. 


'Aarfiff  rrfjlv  fiiv  e.\a)ii:ti  iv\  ^iMiaiv  toiog. 
JSiv  a  Oavbjv,  XajjuTCi;  cancpo;  iv  (jiOijitvul;. 


PREFACE. 


^apHOKOv  r)X0£,  lM(ov,  irorl  adv  (TTOjxa,  (papitatov  ei6c;' 
Tlh'i  TCv  TOij  XtiXerrai  vorci^pafic,  kovk  tyXvKaiSri  ; 
Ti's  Si  jJpoTOg  ToaaouTOf  dviipspos,  i)  Kspaaat  roi, 
"H  t^ai^ai  XaXsonTi  to  (bappuKOf  ;   iKipvycn  loiaf. 

Mo^cHUs,  Epitaph.  Bion. 


It  is  my  intention  to  subjoin  to  the  London 
edition  of  tliis  poem,  a  criticism  upon  the  claims 
of  its  lamented  object  to  be  classed  among  the 
writers  of  the  highest  genius  who  have  adorned 
our  age.  My  known  repugnance  to  the  narrow 
principles  of  taste  on  which  several  of  his  earlier 
compositions  were  modelled,  prove  at  least  that  I 
am  an  impartial  judge.  I  consider  the  fragment  of 
"  Hyperion,"  as  second  to  nothing  that  was  ever 
produced  by  a  writer  of  the  same  years. 

John  Keats  died  at  Rome,  of  a  consumption,  in 
his  twenty-fourth  year,  on  the  27t]i  of  December, 
1820,  and  was  buried  in  the  romantic  and  lonely 
cemetery  of  the  protestants  in  that  city,  under  the 
pyramid  which  is  the  tomb  of  Cestiiis,  and  the 
massy  walls  and  towers,  now  mouldering  and 
desolate,  which  formed  the  circuit  of  ancient  Rome. 
The  cemetery  is  an  open  space  among  the  ruins, 
covered  in  winter  with  violets  and  daisies.  It 
might  make  one  in  love  with  death,  to  think  that 
one  should  be  buried  in  so  sweet  a  iilace. 

The  genius  of  the  lamented  person  to  whose 
memory  I  have  dedicated  these  unworthy  verses, 
was  not  less  delicate  and  fragile  than  it  was 
beautiful ;  and  where  canker-worms  abound,  what 
wonder,  if  its  young  flower  was  blighted  in  the  bud  ] 
The  savage  criticism  on  his  "  Endymion,"  which 
appeared  in  the  Quarterly  Review,  produced  the  most 
violent  elfect  on  his  susceptible  mind ;  the  agita- 
tion thus  originated  ended  in  the  rupture  of  n  blood- 
vessel in  the  lungs;  a  rapid  consumption  ensued; 
and  the  succeeding  acknowledgments  from  more 
candid  critics,  of  the  true  greatness  of  his  powers, 
were  ineffectual  to  heal  the  wound  thus  wantonly 
inflicted. 

It  may  well  be  said,  that  these  wretched  men 
know  not  what  they  do.  They  scatter  their  insults 
and  their  slanders  without  heed  as  to  whether  the 

40 


poisoned  shaft  lights  on  a  heart  made  callous  by 
many  blows,  or  one,  like  Kcats's,  composed  of  more 
penetrable  stuif.  One  of  their  associates  is,  to  my 
knowledge,  a  most  base  and  unprincipled  calum- 
niator. As  to  "  Endymion,"  was  it  a  poem,  what- 
ever might  be  its  defects,  to  be  treated  contempt- 
uously by  those  who  had  celebrated  with  various 
degrees  of  complacency  and  panegyric,  "  Paris," 
and,  "  Woman,"  and  a  "  Syrian  Tale,"  and  Mrs. 
Lcfanu,  and  Mr.  Barret,  and  Mr.  Howard  Payne, 
and  a  long  list  of  the  illustrious  obscure  1  Are  these 
the  men,  who  in  their  venal  good-nature,  presumed 
to  draw  a  parallel  between  the  Rev.  Mr.  Milman 
and  Lord  Byron  ]  What  gnat  did  they  strain  at 
here,  after  having  swallowed  all  those  camels? 
Against  what  woman  taken  in  adultery  dares  the 
foremost  of  these  literary  prostitutes  to  cast  his 
opprobrious  stone  1  Miserable  man  !  you,  one  of 
the  meanest,  have  wantonly  defaced  one  of  the 
noblest  specimens  of  the  workmanship  of  God. 
Nor  shall  it  be  your  excuse,  that,  murderer  as  you 
are,  you  have  spoken  daggers,  but  used  none. 

The  circumstances  of  the  closing  scene  of  poor 
Keats's  life  were  not  made  known  to  me  until  the 
Elegy  was  ready  for  the  press.  I  am  given  to 
understand  that  the  wound  which  his  sensitive 
spirit  had  received  from  the  criticism  of  "  Endy- 
mion" was  exasperated  at  the  bitter  sense  of  unre- 
quited benefits;  the  poor  fellow  seems  to  have 
been  hooted  from  the  stage  of  life,  no  less  by  those 
on  whom  he  had  wasted  the  promise  of  his  genius, 
than  those  on  whom  he  had  lavished  his  fortune 
and  his  care.  He  was  accompanied  to  Rome,  and 
attended  in  his  last  illness  by  Mr.  Severn,  a  young 
artist  of  the  highest  promise,  who,  I  have  been 
informed,  "  almost  risked  his  own  life,  and  sacrificed 
every  prospect,  to  unwearied  attendance  upon  his 
dying  friend."  Had  I  known  these  circumstances 
before  the  completion  of  my  poem,  I  should  have 
been  tempted  to  add  my  feeble  tribute  of  applause 
to  the  more  solid  recompense  which  the  virtuous 
man  finds  in  the  recollection  of  his  own  motives. 
Mr.  Severn  can  dispense  with  a  reward  from  -'such 
stuir  as  dreams  are  made  of."  His  conduct  is  a 
golden  augury  of  the  success  of  his  future  career — 
may  the  extinguished  Spirit  of  his  illustrious  friend 
animate  the  creations  of  his  pencil,  and  i)lead 
against  Oblivion  for  his  name  ! 

2T>  an 


314 


POEMS    WRITTEN    IN    1821, 


ADONAIS. 


I  "WEEP  for  Adosais — he  is  dead ! 
Oh,  weep  for  Adonais  !  ihoiitili  our  tears 
Thaw  not  the  frost  whicli  hinds  so  dear  a  head  ! 
And  thou,  sad  Hour,  .selected  from  all  years 
To  mourn  our  loss,  rouse  thy  ohscurn  compeers, 
And  teach  them  thine  own  sorrow ;  say  :  with  me 
Died  Adonais;  till  the  Future  dares 
Forget  the  Past,  his  fate  and  fame  shall  be 
An  echo  and  a  light  unto  eternity  ! 


Where  wert  thou,  mighty  Mother,  when  he  lay, 
When  thy  son  lay,  pierced  by  the  shaft  which  thes 
In  darkness.]  where  was  lorn  Urania 
When  Adonais  died  ?   With  veiled  eyes, 
'Mid  listening  Echoes,  in  her  Paradise 
She  sate,  while  one,  with  soft  enamoured  breath, 
Rekindled  all  the  fading  melodies, 
With  which,  like  flowers  that   mock  the  corse 
beneath. 
He  had  adorned  and  hid  the  coming  bulk  of  death 


Oh,  weep  for  Adonais — he  is  dead  ! 
Wake,  melancholy  Mother,  wake  and  weep  ! 
Yet  wherefore  ]  Quench  within  their  burning  bed 
Thy  fiery  tears,  and  let  thy  loud  heart  keep. 
Like  his,  a  mute  and  uncomplaining  sleep  ; 
For  he  is  gone,  where  all  things  wise  and  fair 
Descend  : — oh,  dream  not  that  the  amorous  Deep 
Will  yet  restore  him  to  the  vital  air ; 
Death  feeds  on  his  mute  voice,  and  laughs  at  our 
despair, 

IT. 

Most  musical  of  mourners,  weep  again ! 
Lament  anew,  Urania  ! — He  died. 
Who  vfAH  the  Sire  of  an  immortal  strain. 
Blind,  old,  and  lonely  when  his  country's  pride 
The  priest,  the  slave,  and  the  iiberticide, 
Trampled  and  mocked  with  many  a  loathed  rite 
Of  lust  and  blood;  ho  went,  unterrificd. 
Into  the  gulf  of  death;  but  his  clear  Sprite 
Yet  reigns  o'er  earth ;  the  third  among  the  sons  of 
light. 


Most  musical  of  mourners,  weep  anew ! 
Not  all  to  that  bright  station  dared  to  climb: 
And  happier  they  their  happiness  who  knew. 
Whose  tapers  yet  I)urn  through  that  night  of  time 
In  which  suns  perished ;  olliers  more  sublime, 
Struck  by  the  envious  wrath  of  man  or  f  Jod, 
Have  sunk,  extinct  in  their  refulgent  prime ; 
And  some  yet  live,  treading  the  thorny  road, 
Which  leads,  through  toil  and  hate,  to   Fame's 
serene  abode. 


But  now,  thy  youngest,  dearest  one,  has  perished. 
The  nurshng  of  thy  widowhood,  who  grew, 
Like  a  |)ale  flower  by  some  sad  maiden  cherished, 
And  fed  with  true  love  tears  instead  of  dew ; 
Most  musical  of  mourners,  weep  anew  ! 
Thy  extreme  hope,  the  loveliest  and  the  last. 
The  bloom,  whose  petals  nipt  before  they  blew 
Died  on  the  promise  of  the  fruit,  is  waste ; 
The  broken  lily  lies — the  storm  is  overpast. 


To  that  high  Capital,  where  kingly  Death 
Keeps  his  pale  court  in  beauty  and  decay. 
He    came;    and   bought,    with   price    of  purest 
breath, 

A  grave  among  the  eternal Come  away  ! 

Haste,  while  the  vault  of  blue  Italian  day 
Is  yet  his  fitting  charnel-roof !  while  still 
He  lies,  as  if  in  dewy  sleep  he  lay; 
Awake  him  not !  surely  he  takes  his  fill 
Of  deep  and  liquid  rest,  forgetful  of  all  ill. 


He  will  awake  no  more,  oh,  never  more  ! 
Within  the  twilight  chamber  spreads  apace  ■ 

The  shadow  of  white  Death,  and  at  the  door 
Invisible  Corruption  waits  to  trace 
His  extreme  way  to  her  dim  dwelling-place ; 
The  eternal  Hunger  sits,  but  pity  and  awe 
Soothe  her  pale  rage,  nor  dares  she  to  deface 
So  foir  a  prey,  till  darkness  and  the  law 
Of  change,  shall  o'er  his  sleep  the  mortal  curtain 
draw. 

IX. 

Oh,  weep  for  Adonais  ! — The  quick  Dreams, 
The  passion-winged  Ministers  of  thought, 
Who  were  his  flocks,  whom  near  the  living  streams 
Of  his  young  spirit  he  fed,  and  whom  he  taught 
The  love  which  was  its  music,  wander  not 
Wander  no  more,  from  kindling  brain  to  brain. 
But  droop  there,  whence  they  sprung:  and  mourn 

their  lot  . 
Round  the  cold  heart,  where,  after  their  sweet  pain, 
They  ne'er  will  gather  strength,  nor  find  a  home 

again. 

X. 

And  one  with  trembling  hand  clasps  his  cold  head, 
And  fans  him  with  her  moonlight  wings,  and  cries, 
"  Our  love,  our  hope,  our  sorrow,  is  not  dead; 
See,  on  the  silken  fringe  of  his  faint  eyes, 
Like  dew  upon  a  sleeping  flower,  there  lies 
A  tear  some  Dream  has  loosened  from  his  brain." 
Lost  Angel  of  a  ruined  Paradise  ! 
She  knew  not  'twas  her  own  5  as  with  no  stain 
She  faded,  Hke  a  cloud  whicli  had  outwcpt  its 
rain. 


A  D  O  N  A I S. 


:  15 


One  from  a  lucid  urn  of  starrj-  dow 
Washed  liU  litrlit  liiiihs,  as  if  embalming  them ; 
Another  chjit  her  profuse  locks,  and  threw, 
The  wreath  upon  him,  like  an  anadcm, 
Which  frozen  tears  instead  of  pearls  begem; 
Another  in  her  wilful  grief  would  break 
Her  bow  and  winged  reeds,  as  if  to  stem 
A  greater  loss  with  one  which  was  more  weak ; 
And  dull  the  barbed  fire  agahist  his  frozen  cheek. 

XII. 

Another  Splendour  on  his  mouth  alit, 
That  mouth  whence  it  was  wont  to  draw  the  breath 
Which  gave  it  strength  to  pierce  the  guarded  wit, 
And  pass  into  the  jmnting  heart  beneath 
With  lightning  and  with  music :  the  damp  death 
Quenched  its  caress  upon  its  icy  lips ; 
And,  as  a  dying  meteor  stains  a  wreath 
Of  moonlight  vapour,  which  the  cold  night  clips, 
It  flushed  through  his  pale  limbs,  and  passed  to  its 
eclipse. 

XIIT. 

And  others  came, — Desires  and  Adorations, 
Winged  Persuasions,  and  veiled  Destinies, 
Splendours,  and  Glooms,  and  glimmering  Incar- 
nations 
Of  hopes  and  fears,  and  twilight  Phantasies ; 
And  Sorrow,  with  her  family  of  Sighs, 
And  Pleasure,  blind  with  tears,  led  by  the  gleam 
Of  her  own  dying  smile  instead  of  eyes, 
Came  in  slow  pomp ; — the  movuig  pomp  might 
seem 
Like  pageantry  of  mist  on  an  autumnal  stream. 

XIV. 

All  he  had  loved,  and  moulded  into  thought 
P'rom  shape,  and  hue,  and  odour,  and  sweet  sound. 
Lamented  Adonais.     Morning  sought 
Her  eastern  watch-tower,  and  her  hair  unbound, 
Wet  witli  the  tears  which  should  adorn  the  ground, 
Dfmmed  the  aerial  eyes  that  kindle  day  ; 
Afar  the  melancholy  Thunder  moaned. 
Pale  Ocean  in  unquiet  slumber  lay,         [dismay. 
And  the  wild  winds  flew  around,  sobbing  in  their 

XV. 

Lost  Echo  sits  amid  the  voiceless  mountains. 
And  feeds  her  grief  with  his  remembered  lay. 
And  will  no  more  reply  to  winds  or  fountains. 
Or  amorous  birds  perched  on  the  y^oung  green 

spray. 
Or  herdsman's  horn,  or  bell  at  closing  day  ; 
Since  she  can  mimic  not  his  lips,  more  dear 
Than  those  for  whose  disdain  they  pined  away 
Into  a  shadow  of  all  sounds : — a  drear  [hear. 

Murmur,  between  their  songs,  is  all  the  woodmen 

XVI. 

Grief  made  the  young  Spring  wild,  and  she  threw 
Her  kindling  buds,  as  if  she  Autumn  were,  [down 
Or  they  dead  leaves ;  since  her  delight  is  flown. 
For  whom  should  she  have  waked  the  sullen  year"! 
To  Phrebus  w;us  not  Hyacinth  so  dear. 
Nor  to  himself  Narcissus,  as  to  both 
Thou  Adonais :  wan  they  stand  and  sere 
Amid  the  faint  companions  of  their  youth,  [ruth. 
With  dew  all  turned  to  tears ;  odour,  to  sighing 


Thy  spirit's  sister,  the  lorn  nightingale. 
Mourns  not  her  mate  with  such  melodious  pain  ; 
Not  so  the  eagle,  who  like  thee  could  scale 
Heaven,  and  could  nourish  in  the  sun's  domain 
Her  mighty  youth,  with  morning  doth  complain, 
Soaring  and  screaming  round  her  empty  nest. 
As  Albion  wails  for  thee:  the  curse  of  Cain 
Light  on  bis  head  who  jiicrced  thy  innocent  breast. 
And  scared  the  iingel  soul  that  was  its  earthly  guest ! 

XVIII. 

Ah  wo  is  me  !    Winter  is  come  and  gone. 
But  grief  returns  witli  the  revolving  year ; 
The  airs  and  streams  renew  their  joyous  tone; 
The  ants,  the  bees,  the  swallows,  reappear ; 
Fresh  leaves  and  flowers  deck  the  dead  Seasons' 
The  amorous  birds  now  pair  in  every  brake,  [bier ; 
And  build  their  mossy  homes  in  field  and  brere  ; 
And  the  green  lizard,  and  the  golden  snake. 
Like  unimprisoned  flames,  out  of  their  trance  awake. 

XIX. 

Through  wood  and  sti-eam  and  field  and  hill  and 

Ocean, 
A  quickening  life  from  the  Earth's  heart  has  burst, 
As  it  has  ever  done,  with  change  and  motion. 
From  the  great  morning  of  the  world  when  first 
God  dawned  on  Chaos ;  in  its  stream  immersed. 
The  lamps  of  Heaven  flash  with  a  softer  light ; 
All  baser  things  pant  with  life's  sacred  thirst ; 
DilTuse  themselves ;  and  spend  in  love's  delight, 
The  beauty  and  the  joj-  of  their  renewed  might.  " 

XX. 

The  leprous  corpse  touched  by  this  spirit  tender, 
Exhales  itself  in  flowers  of  gentle  breath; 
Like  incarnations  of  the  stars,  when  splendour 
Is  changed  to  fragrance,  they  illumine  death, 
And  mock  the  merry  worm  that  wakes  beiieath  ; 
Nought  we  know  dies.     Shall  that  alone  which 

knows 
Be  as  a  sword  consumed  before  the  sheath 
By  sightless  lightning]   th'  intense  atom  glows 
A  moment,  then  is  quenched  in  a  most  cold  repose. 

XXI. 

Alas !  that  all  we  loved  of  him  should  be, 
But  for  our  grief,  as  if  it  had  not  been, 
And  grief  itself  be  mortal !   Wo  is  me  ! 
Whence  are  we,  and  why  are  we  ]  of  what  scene 
The  actors  or  spectators  ]  Great  and  mean  [borrow. 
Meet  massed  in  death,  who  lends  what  life  must 
As  long  as  skies  are  blue,  and  fields  are  green, 
Evening  must  usher  night,  night  urge  the  morrow, 
Month  follow  month  with  wo,  and  year  wake  year 
to  sorrow. 

XXII. 

He  will  awake  no  more,  oh,  never  more ! 
'•  Wake  thou,"  cried  Misery,  '•  childless  Mother,  rise 
Out  of  thy  sleep,  and  slake,  in  thy  heart's  core, 
A  wound  more  fierce  than  his  tears  and  sighs." 
And  all  the  Dreams  that  watched  Urania's  eyes. 
And  all  the  echoes  whom  their  sister's  song 
Had  held  in  holy  silence,  cried.  «  Arise !" 
Swift  as  a  Thought  by  the  snake  Memory  stum, 
From   her  ambrosial  rest   the    fading  Splendour 
sprung. 


316 


POEMS    WRITTEN    IN    1821. 


XXIII. 

She  rose  like  an  autumnal  Night,  that  springs 
Out  of  the  East,  and  follows  wild  and  drear 
The  golden  Da)',  which,  on  eternal  wings, 
Even  as  a  ghost  abandoning  a  bier, 
Has  left  the  Earth  a  corpse.     Sorrow  and  fear 
So  struck,  so  roused,  so  rapt,  Urania, 
So  saddened  round  her  like  an  atmosphere 
Of  stormy  mist ;  so  swept  her  on  her  way, 
Even  to  the  mournful  place  where  Adonais  lay. 

XXIV. 

Out  of  her  secret  Paradise  she  sped,  [steel, 

Through  camps  and  cities  rough  with  stone,  and 
And  human  hearts,  w  hich  to  her  aery  tread 
Yielding  not,  wounded  the  invisible 
Palms  of  her  tender  feet  where'er  they  fell ; 
And  barbed  tongues,  and  thoughts  more  sharp  than 
Kent  the  soft  Form  they  never  could  repel,  [they 
Whose  sacred  blood,  like  the  young  tears  of  May, 
Paved  with  eternal  flowers  that  undeserving  way. 

XXV. 

In  the  death-chamber  for  a  moment  Death, 
Shamed  by  the  presence  of  that  living  Might, 
Blushed  to  annihilation,  and  the  breath 
Revisited  those  lips,  and  life's  pale  light  [delight. 
Flashed  through  those    limbs,  so  late   her  dear 
"  Leave  me  not  wild  and  drear  and  comfortless, 
As  silent  lightning  leaves  the  starless  night ! 
Leave  me  not !"  cried  Urania :  her  distress 

Roused  Death :  Death  rose  and  smiled,  and  met 
her  vain  caress. 

xxvr. 
«  Stay  yet  awhile  !  speak  to  me  once  again ; 
Kiss  me,  so  long  but  as  a  kiss  may  live  ; 
And  in  my  heartless  breast  and  burning  brain 
That  word,  that  kiss  shall  all  thoughts  else  survive. 
With  food  of  saddest  memory  kept  alive, 
Now  thou  art  dead,  as  if  it  were  part 
Of  thee,  my  Adonais  !  I  would  give 
All  that  I  am  to  be  as  thou  now  art, 

B  ut  I  am  chained  to  Time,  and  cannot  thence  depart ! 

xxvir. 
«  O  gentle  child,  beautiful  as  thou  wert,  * 
Why  didst  thou  leave  the  trodden  paths  of  men 
Too  soon,  and  with  weak  hands  though  mighty 

heart 
Dare  the  unpastured  dragon  in  his  den  1 
Defenceless  as  thou  wert,  oh  !  where  was  then 
Wisdom  the  mirror'd  shield,  or  scorn  the  spear? 
Or  hadst  thou  waited  the  full  cycle,  when 
Thy  spirit  should  have  filled  its  crescent  sphere. 
The  monsters  of  life's  waste  had  fled  from  thee 

like  deer. 

XXVIII. 

"  The  herded  wolves,  bold  only  to  pursue ; 
The  obscene  ravens,  clamorous  o'er  the  dead ; 
The  vultures,  to  the  conqueror's  banner  true, 
Who  feed  where  Desolation  first  has  fed. 
And  whose  wings  rain  contagion  ; — how  they  fled, 
When  like  Apollo,  from  his  golden  bow, 
The  Pythian  of  the  age  one  arrow  sped 
And  smiled ! — The  spoilers  tempt  no  second  blow, 
They  fawn   on  the  proud   feet  that   spurn   them 
lying  low. 


"  The  sun  comes  forth,  and  many  reptiles  spawn  ; 
He  sets,  and  each  e{>henieral  insect  then 
Is  gathered  into  death  without  a  dawn. 
And  the  immortal  stars  awake  again ; 
So  it  is  in  the  world  of  living  men  : 
A  godlike  mind  soars  forth,  in  its  delight 
Making  earth  bare  and  veiling  heaven,  and  when 
It  sinks,  the  swarms  that  dimmed  or  spared  its  light 
Leave  to  its  kindred  lamps  the  spirit's  awful  night." 

XXX. 

Thus  ceased  she :  and  the  mountain  shepherds  came, 
Their  garlands  sere,  their  magic  mantles  rent ; 
The  Pilgrim  of  Eternity,  whose  fame 
Over  his  living  head  like  Heaven  is  bent, 
An  early  but  enduring  monument. 
Came,  veiling  all  the  lightnings  of  liis  song 
In  sorrow ;  from  her  wilds  Icrne  sent 
The  sweetest  lyrist  of  her  saddest  WTong, 
And  love  taught  grief  to  fall  like  music  from  his 
tongue. 

XXXI. 

'Midst  others  of  less  note,  came  one  frail  Form, 
A  phantom  among  men,  companionless 
As  the  last  cloud  of  an  expiring  storm. 
Whose  thunder  is  its  knell ;  he,  as  I  guess, 
Had  gazed  on  Nature's  naked  loveliless, 
Acta;on-like,  and  now  he  fled  astray 
With  feeble  steps  o'er  the  world's  wilderness,    . 
And  his  own  thoughts,  along  that  rugged  way. 

Pursued,  like  raging  hounds,  their  father  and  their 
prey. 

xxxir. 
A  pard-like  Spirit  beautiful  and  swift — 
A  love  in  desolation  masked ; — a  Power 
Girt  round  with  weakness ; — it  can  scarce  uplift 
The  weight  of  the  superincumbent  hour; 
It  is  a  dying  lamp,  a  falling  shower, 
A  breaking  billow; — even  whilst  we  speak 
Is  it  not  broken  ?   On  the  withering  flower 
The  killing  sun  smiles  brightly  ;  on  a  cheek 

The  life  can  burn  in  blood,  even  while  the  heart 
may  break. 

XXXIII. 

His  head  was  bound  with  pansies  overblown. 
And  faded  violets,  white,  and  pied,  and  blue  ; 
And  a  light  spear  topped  with  a  cypress  cone, 
Round  whose  rude  shaft  dark  ivy-tresses  grew 
Yet  dripping  with  the  forest's  noonday  dew. 
Vibrated,  as  the  cvcrbeating  heart 
Shook  the  weak  hand  that  grasped  it ;  of  that  crew 
He  came  the  last,  neglected  and  apart ; 
A  herd-abandoned  deer,  struck  by  the  hunter's  dart. 

XXXIV. 

All  stood  aloof,  and  at  his  partial  moan        [band 
Smiled  through  their  tears  ;  well  knew  that  gentle 
Who  in  another's  fate  now  wept  his  own ; 
As  in  the  accents  of  an  unknow-n  land 
He  sang  new  sorrow  ;  sad  Urania  scanned 
The  Stranger's  mien,  and  murmured  :  "  Who  art 
He  ansvi'ered  not,  but  with  a  sudden  hand  [thou  1" 
Made  bare  his  branded  and  ensanguined  brow, 
Which  was  like  Cain's  or  Christ's.     Oh  !   that  it 
should  be  so  ! 


ADONAIS. 


317 


xxxv. 

^^'hat  softer  voice  is  hushed  over  the  deaii  ? 
Atliwart  what  brow  is  that  dark  mantle  thrown  1 
\\'hat  form  leans  sadly  o'er  the  white  deathbed, 
III  mockery  of  monumental  stone, 
The  heavy  heart  heaving  without  a  moan  1 
If  it  be  he,  who,  gentlest  of  the  wise, 
Taught,  soothed,  loved,  honoured  the  departed  one; 
Let  me  not  vex,  inharmonious  sighs. 
The  silence  of  that  heart's  accepted  sacrifice. 

xxxvi- 

Our  Adonais  has  drunk  poison — oh  ! 
What  deaf  and  viperous  murderer  could  crown 
Life's  early  cup  with  such  a  draught  of  wo  ! 
The  nameless  worm  now  itself  disown  : 
It  felt,  yet  could  escape  the  magic  tone 
Whose  prelude  held  all  envy,  hate  and  wrong, 
But  what  was  howling  in  one  breast  alone, 
Silent  with  expectation  of  the  song, 

Whose  master's  hand  is  cold,  whose  silver   lyre 
unstrung. 

xxxvir. 
Live  thou,  whose  infamy  is  not  thy  fame ! 
Live  !  fear  no  heavier  chastisement  from  me, 
Thou  noteless  blot  on  a  remembered  name  ! 
But  be  thyself,  and  know  thyself  to  be  ! 
And  ever  at  thy  season  he  thou  free 
To  spill  the  venom  when  thy  fangs  o'erflow : 
Remorse  and  Self-contempt  shall  cling  to  thee  ; 
Hot  Shame  shall  burn  upon  thy  secret  brow. 

And  like  a  Iwaten  hound  tremble  thou  shalt — as  now. 

XXXTIII. 

Nor  let  us  weep  that  our  delight  is  fled 
Far  from  these  carrion-kites  that  scream  below  ; 
He  wakes  or  sleeps  with  the  enduring  dead  ; 
Thou  canst  not  soar  where  he  is  sitting  now. 
Dust  to  the  dust !  but  the  pure  spirit  shall  flow 
Back  to  the  burning  fountain  whence  it  came, 
A  portion  of  the  Eternal,  which  must  flow 
Through  time  and  change,  imquenchably  the  same, 
Whilst  thy  cold  embers  choke  the  sordid  hearth  of 
shame. 

XXXIX. 

Peace,  peace  !  he  is  not  dead,  he  doth  not  sleep — 
He  hath  awakened  from  the  dream  of  life — 
'Tiswe,  who  lost  m  stormy  visions,  keep 
With  phantoms  an  unprofitable  strife. 
And  in  mad  trance  strike  with  our  spirit's  knife 
Invulnerable  nothings — We  decay 
Like  corpses  in  a  charnel ;  fear  and  grief 
Convulse  us  and  consume  us  da}'  by  day. 
And  cold   hopes   swarm  like  worms  within    our 
living  clay. 

XL. 

He  has  outsoared  the  shadow  of  our  night ; 
Envy  and  calumny,  and  hate  and  pain. 
And  that  unrest  which  men  miscall  delight, 
Can  touch  him  not  and  torture  not  again ; 
From  the  contagion  of  the  world's  slow  stain 
He  is  secure,  and  now  can  never  mourn 
A  heart  grown  cold,  a  head  grown  gray  in  vain ; 
Nor,  when  the  spirit's  self  has  ceased  to  burn. 
With  sparkless  ashes  load  an  uniamented  urn. 


lie  lives,  he  wakes — 'tis  Death  is  dead, not  lie; 
Mourn  not  for  Adonais. — Thou  young  Dawn, 
Turn  all  thy  dew  to  splendour,  for  from  thee 
Tlie  spirit  thou  lamentest  is  not  gone  ; 
Yc  caverns  and  ye  forests,  cease  to  moan  ! 
Cease  yc  faint  flowers  and  fountains,  and  thou  Air, 
Which  like  a  morning  veil  thy  scarf  had  thrown 
O'er  the  abandoned  Earth,  now  leave  it  bare 
Even  to  the  joyous  stars  which  smile  on  its  despair  I 

XLII. 

He  is  made  one  with  Nature  :  there  is  heard 
His  voice  in  all  her  music,  from  the  moan 
Of  thunder,  to  the  song  of  night's  sweet 'bird  ; 
He  is  a  presence  to  be  felt  and  known 
In  dai-kness  and  in  light, from  herb  and  stone, 
Spreading  itself  where'er  that  Power  may  move 
Which  has  withdrawn  his  being  to  its  own  ; 
Which  wields  the  world  with  never  wearied  love. 
Sustains  it  from  beneath,  and  kindles  it  above. 

xmi. 
He  is  a  portion  of  the  loveliness 
Which  once  he  made  more  lovely  :  he  doth  bear 
His  part,  while  the  one  Spirit's  plastic  stress 
Sweeps  through  the  dull  dense  world,  compelling 
All  new  successions  to  the  forms  they  wear  [there 
Torturing  th'  unwilling  dross  that  checks  its  flight 
To  its  own  likeness,  as  each  mass  may  bear ; 
And  bursting  in  its  beauty  and  its  might 
From  trees  and  beasts  and  men  into  the  Heavens' 
light. 

XLIT. 

The  splendours  of  the  firmament  of  time 
May  be  eclipsed,  but  are  extinguished  not : 
Like  stars  to  their  appointed  height  the}'  climb, 
And  death  is  a  low  mist  which  cannot  blot 
The  brightness  it  may  veil.     When  lofty  thought 
Lifts  a  young  heart  above  its  mortal  lair. 
And  love  and  hfe  contend  in  it,  for  what 
Shall  be  its  earthly  doom,  the  dead  live  there. 
And  move  like  winds  of  light  on  daik  and  stormy 
air. 

XLT. 

The  inheritors  of  unfulfilled  renown       [thought. 
Rose    from    their    thrones,  built  beyond    mortal 
Far  in  the  unapparent.     Chattcrton 
Rose  pale,  his  solemn  agony  had  not 
Yet  faded  from  him ;  Sidney,  as  he  fought 
And  as  he  fell  and  as  he  lived  and  loved, 
Sublimely  mild,  a  Spirit  without  spot. 
Arose ;  and  Lucan,  by  his  death  approved ; 
Obhvion  as  they  rose  shrank  like  a  thing  reproved. 

XLTI. 

And  many  more,  whose  names  on  Earth  are  dark. 
But  whose  transmitted  effluence  cannot  die 
So  long  as  fire  outlives  the  parent  spark, 
Rose,  robed  in  dazzling  immortality. 
'•  Thou  art  become  as  one  of  us,"  they  cry ; 
"  It  was  for  thee  yon  kingless  sphere  has  long 
Swung  blind  in  unascended  majesty. 
Silent  alone  amid  a  Heaven  of  song. 
Assume  thy  winged   throne,  thou  Vesper  of  our 
throng !" 


318 


POEMS    WRITTEN    IN    1821. 


XLTII. 

Who  mourns  for  Adonais  1  oh  come  forth, 
Fond  wretch  !  and  know  thyself  and  him  aright. 
Clasp  with  thy  panting  soul  the  pendulous  Earth  ; 
As  from  a  centre,  dart  thy  spirit's  light 
Beyond  all  worlds,  until  its  spacious  might 
Satiate  the  void  circumference  :  then  shrink 
Even  to  a  point  witliin  our  day  and  night; 
And  keep  thy  heart  light,  lest  it  make  thee  sink 
When  hope  has  kindled  hope,  and  lured  thee  to  the 
brink. 

XLVIII. 

Or  go  to  Rome,  which  is  the  sepulchre, 
Oh,  not  of  him,  but  of  our  joy  :  'Tis  nought 
That  ages,  empires,  and  religions,  there 
Lie  buried  in  the  ravage  they  have  wrought ; 
For  such  as  he  can  lend, — they  borrow  not 
Glory  from  those  who  made  the  world  their  prey ; 
And  he  is  gathered  to  the  kings  of  thought 
"V\'ho  waged  contention  with  their  times'  decay, 
And  of  the  past  are  all  that  cannot  pass  away. 

XLIX. 

Go  thou  to  Rome, — at  once  the  Paradise, 
The  grave,  the  city,  and  the  wilderness : 
And  where  its  wrecks  like  shattered  mountains  rise, 
And  flowering  weeds,  and  fragrant  copses  dress 
The  bones-  of  Desolation's  nakedness 
Pass,  till  the  Spirit  of  the  spot  shall  lead 
Thy  footsteps  to  a  slope  of  green  access, 
Where,  like  an  infant's  smile,  over  the  dead 
A  Ught  of  laughmg  flowers  along  the  grass  is  spread. 

And  gray  walls  moulder  round,  on  which  dull  Time 
Feeds,  like  slow  fire  upon  a  hoary  brand ; 
And  one  keen  pyramid  with  wedge  sublime. 
Pavilioning  the  dust  of  him  who  planned 
Tliis  refuge  for  his  memory,  doth  stand 
Like  flame  transformed  to  marble ;  and  beneath 
A  field  is  spread,  on  which  a  newer  band 
Have  pitched  in  Heaven's  smile  their  camp  of  death. 
Welcoming  him  we  lose  with  scarce  extinguished 
breath. 

LI. 

Here  pause :  these  graves  are  all  too  young  as  yet 
To  have  outgrown  the  sorrow  which  consigned 
Its  charge  to  each ;  and  if  the  seal  is  set. 
Here,  on  one  fountam  of  a  mourning  mind. 


Break  it  not  thou  !  too  surely  shalt  thou  find 
Thine  own  well  full,  if  thou  rcturnest  home, 
Of  tears  and  gall.     From  the  world's  bitter  wind 
Seek  shelter  in  the  shadow  of  the  tomb. 
What  Adonais  is,  why  fear  we  to  become  1 

LIT. 

The  One  remains,  the  many  change  and  pass ; 
Heaven's  light  for  ever  shines.  Earth's  shadows  fly ; 
Life,  like  a  dome  of  many-coloured  glass. 
Stains  the  white  radiance  of  Eternity, 
Until  Death  tramples  it  to  fragments. — Die, 
If  thou  wouldst  be  wit'n  that  which  thou  dost  seek ! 
Follow  where  ajl.  is  fled  ! — Rome's  azure  sky. 
Flowers,  ruins,  statues,  music,  words  are  weak 
The  glory  they  transfuse  with  fitting  truth  to  speak. 

LIII. 

Why  linger,  why  turn  back,  why  sluink,   my 

Heart  1 
Thy  hopes  are  gone  before :  from  all  things  here 
They  have  departed  ;  thou  shouldst  now  depart ! 
A  light  is  past  fi-om  the  revolving  year, 
And  man,  and  woman !  and  what  still  is  dear 
Attracts  to  crush,  repels  to  make  thee  wither. 
The  soft  sky  smiles, — the  low  wind  whispers  near : 
'Tis  Adonais  calls !  oh,  hasten  thither. 
No  more   let  Life  divide  what   Death  can  join 

together 

iiv. 
That  light  whose  smile  kindles  the  Universe, 
That  Beauty  in  which  all  things  work  and  move, 
That  Benediction  which  the  eclipsing  Curse 
Of  birth  can  quench  not,  that  sustaining  Love 
Which  through  the  web  of  being  bUndly  wove 
By  man  and  beast  and  earth  and  air  and  sea. 
Burns  bright  or  dim,  as  each  are  mirrors  of 
Tlie  fire  for  which  all  thirst,  now  beams  on  me, 
Consuming  the  last  clouds  of  cold  mortality. 

IV. 

The  breath  whose  might  I  have  invoked  in  song 
Descends  on  me ;  my  spirit's  bark  is  driven 
Far  fi-om  the  shore,  far  from  the  trembling  throng 
Whose  sails  were  never  to  the  tempest  given ; 
The  massy  earth  and  sphered  skies  are  riven ! 
I  am  borne  darkly,  fearfullj',  afar ; 
Whilst  burning  through  the  inmost  veil  of  Heaven, 
The  soul  of  Adonais,  like  a  star. 
Beacons  from  the  abode  where  the  Eternal  are. 


izJ 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


319 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


TO  E  *  *  *  V  * 


Madovn'a,  wherefore  hast  thou  sent  to  me 

Sweet-basil  and  mignionette  ! 
Enihlcining  love  and  health,  which  never  yet 
In  the  same  wreath  might  be. 
Alas,  and  they  arc  wet ! 
Is  it  with  thy  kisses  or  thy  tears  ] 
For  never  rain  or  dew 
Such  fragrance  drew 
From  plant  or  tlovver — the  veiy  doubt  endears 

My  sadness  ever  new, 
Tlie  sighs  I  breatlie,  the  tears  I  shed  for  thee. 
March,  1821. 


TIME. 


UxFATHo:*rAnLE  Sea  !  whose  waves  are  years, 

Ocean  of  Time,  whose  waters  of  deep  wo 
Are  brackish  with  the  salt  of  human  tears! 

Thou  shoreless  flood,  which  in  tliy  ebb  and  flow 
Claspest  the  limits  of  mortality  ! 
And  sick  of  prey,  yet  howling  on  for  more, 
Yomitest  thy  wrecks  on  its  inliospitable  shore, 
Treacherous  in  calm,  and  terrible  in  storm, 
Who  shall  put  forth  on  thee, 
Unfathomable  Sea  ? 


FROM  THE  ARABIC. 


AN    IMITATION 


Mr  faint  spirit  was  sitting  in  the  light 

Of  thy  looks,  my  love  ; 
It  panted  for  thee  like  the  hind  at  noon 

For  the  brooks,  my  love. 
Thy  barb,  whose  hoofs  outspeed  the  tempest's  flight, 

Bore  thee  far  from  me ; 
My  heart,  for  my  weak  feet  were  weary  soon, 

Did  companion  thee. 

Ah !  fleeter  far  than  fleetest  storm  or  steed. 

'     Or  the  death  they  bear, 
The  heart  which  tender  thought  clothes  like  a  dove 

With  the  wings  of  care  ; 
In  the  battle,  in  the  darkness,  in  the  need, 

Shall  mine  cling  to  thee, 
Nor  claim  one  smile  for  all  the  comfort,  love, 

It  may  bring  to  thee. 


TO  NIGHT. 


SwiFTLT  walk  over  the  western  wave, 

'^     Spirit  of  Night ! 
Out  of  the  misty  eastern  cave. 
Where  all  the  long  and  lone  daylight. 
Thou  wovest  dreams  of  joy  and  fear, 
Which  make  thee  terrible  and  dear, — 
Swilt  be  thy  flight ! 

Wrap  thy  form  in  a  mantle  gray, 

Star-inwrought ! 
Blind  with  thine  hair  the  eyes  of  day, 
Kiss  her  until  she  he  wearied  out. 
Then  wander  o'er  city,  and  sea,  and  land, 
Touching  all  with  thine  "J'tf  tf.  Wl"d — 

Come,  lojigrsauglit ! 

When  I  arose  and  saw  the  dawn, 

I  sighed  for  thee ; 
When  light  rode  high,  and  the  dew  was  gone, 
And  noon  lay  heavy  on  flower  and  tree, 
And  the  weary  Day  turned  to  its  rest, 
Lingering  like  an  unloved  guest, 

I  sighed  for  thee. 

Thy  brother  Death  came,  and  cried 

Wouldst  thou  me  1 
Thy  sweet  child  Sleep,  the  filmy-eyed. 

Murmured  like  a  noontide  bee, 
Shall  I  nestle  near  thy  side  1 
Wouldst'thou  me  1 — And  I  replied, 

No,  not  thee ! 

Death  will  come  when  thou  art  dead, 

Soon,  too  soon — 
Sleep  will  come  when  thou  art  fled  ; 
Of  neither  would  I  ask  the  boon 
I  ask  of  thee,  beloved  Night — 
Sivifl  be  thine  approaching  flight, 

Come  soon,  soon ! 


TO 


Music,  when  soft  voices  die, 
Vibrates  in  the  memory — 
Odours,  when  sweet  violets  sicken, 
Live  within  the  sense  they  quicken. 

Rose  leaves,  when  the  rose  is  dead, 
Are  heaped  for  tlic  beloved's  bed ; 
And  so  thy  thoughts,  when  thou  art  gone. 
Love  itself  shall  slumber  on. 


320 

POEMS    WRITTEN    IN    182  1. 

JIUTABILITY, 

III. 

«  And  fear'st  thou,  and  fcar'st  thou  1 
And  see'st  thou,  and  hcar'st  thou  1 

The  flower  that  smiles  to-day 

And  drive  we  not  free 

To-morrow  dies ; 

O'er  the  terrible  sea, 

All  that  we  wish  to  sta^', 

I  and  thou  ]" 

Tempts  and  then  flies ; 

What  is  this  world's  delight  ? 

One  boat-cloak  did  cover 

Lightning  that  mocks  the  night, 

The  loved  and  the  lover — 

Brief  even  as  bright. 

Their  blood  beats  one  measure. 
They  murmur  proud  pleasure 

Virtue,  how  frail  it  is ! 

Soft  and  low ; — 

Friendship  too  rare ! 

Love,  how  it  sells  poor  bliss 

While  around  the  lashed  Ocean, 

For  proud  despair ! 

Like  mountains  in  motion. 

But  we,  though  soon  they  fall, 

Is  withdrawn  and  uplifted. 

Survive  their  joy  and  all 

Sunk,  shattered,  and  shifted, 

Which  ours  we  call. 

To  and  fro. 

Whilst  skies  are  blue  and  bright. 

IV. 

Whilst  flowers  are  gay. 

In  the  court  of  the  fortress 

Whilst  eyes  that  change  ere  night 

Beside  the  pale  portress. 

Make  glad  the  day  ; 

Like  a  bloodhound  well  beaten 

Whilst  yet  the  calm  hours  creep, 

The  bridegroom  stands,  eaten 

Dream  thou — ^and  from  thy  sleep 

By  shame ; 

Then  wake  to  weep. 

On  the  topmost  watch-turret, 
As  a  death-boding  spirit, 

Stands  the  gray  tyrant  father. 
To  his  voice  the  mad  weather 

THE  FUGITIVES. 

Seems  tame ; 

And  with  curses  as  wild 

I. 

As  e'er  cling  to  child. 

The  waters  are  flashing. 

He  devotes  to  the  blast 

The  white  hail  is  dashing, 

The  best,  loveliest,  and  last 

The  lightnings  are  glancing, 

Of  his  name ! 

The  hoar-spray  is  dancing — 

Away ! 
The  whirlwind  is  rolling, 

The  thunder  is  tolling. 

LINES. 

The  forest  is  swinging. 

The  minster   bells  ringing — 

Fah,  fir  away,  0  ye 

Come  away ! 

Halcyons  of  memory ! 
Seek  some  far  calmer  nest 

The  Earth  is  like  Ocean, 

Than  this  abandoned  breast ; — 

Wreck-strewn  and  in  motion  : 

No  news  of  your  false  spring                 ' 

Bird,  beast,  man,  and  worm. 

To  my  heart's  winter  bring ; 
Once  having  gone,  in  vain 

Have  crept  out  of  the  storm — 

Come  away ! 

Ye  come  again. 

II. 

Vultures,  who  build  your  bowers 

"  Our  boat  has  one  sail, 

High  in  the  Future's  towers. 

And  the  helmsman  is  pale ; — 

Withered  hopes  on  hopes  are  spread, 

A  bold  pilot  I  trow. 

Dying  jo\-s  choked  by  the  dead. 

Who  should  follow  us  now," — 

Will  serve  your  beaks  for  prey 

Shouted  He — 

Many  a  day. 

And  she  cried  :  "  Ply  the  oar 
Put  off  gaily  from  shore  !" — 

' 

As  she  spoke,  bolts  of  death 

TO 

Mixed  with  hail,  specked  their  path 

O'er  the  sea. 

MixE  eyes  were  dim  with  tears  unshed ; 

And  from  isle,  tower,  and  rock, 

Yos,  I  was  firm — thus  wcrt  not  thou  ; — • 

The  blue  beacon-cloud  broke. 

My  bafilod  looks  did  fear  yet  dread 

Though  dumb  in  the  blast. 

To  meet  thy  looks — I  could  not  know 

The  red  cannon  flashed  fast 

How  anxiously  they  sought  to  shine 

From  the  lee. 

With  soothing  pity  upon  mine. 

MISCELLANEOUS.                                                     321 

To  sit  and  curb  the  soul's  mute  rage 

I  love  all  that  thou  lovest, 

Which  preys  upon  itsolf  alone  ; 

Spirit  of  Delight ! 

To  curse  the  lil'o  which  is  tiie  cage 

The  fresh  Earth  in  new  leaves  drcst, 

Of  fettered  grief  that  dares  not  groan, 

And  the  starry  niglit; 

Ilidiiiff  from  many  a  careless  eye 

Autuiim  evening,  and  the  morn 

The  scorned  load  of  agony. 

When  the  golden  mists  are  born. 

Whilst  thou  alone,  then  not  regarded, 

I  love  snow,  and  all  the  forms 

The  [          ]  tliou  alone  should  be. 

Of  the  radiant  frost : 

To  spend  years  thus,  and  be  rewarded. 

I  love  waves,  and  winds,  and  storms, 

As  thou,  sweet  love,  requited  me 

Every  thing  almost 

When  none  were  near — Oli !   I  did  wake 

Which  is  Nature's,  and  may  be 

From  torture  for  that  moment's  sake. 

Untainted  by  man's  misery. 

Upon  my  heart  thy  accents  sweet 

I  love  tranquil  solitude, 

Of  peace  and  pity  fell  like  dew 

And  such  society 

On  tlowers  half  dead  ; — thy  lij)s  did  meet 

As  is  quiet,  wise,  and  good; 

Mine  trembhngly ;  thy  dark  eyes  threw 

Between  thee  and  me 

Their  soft  persuasion  on  my  brain, 

M'hat  dilference  1  but  thou  dost  possess 

Cliarming  away  its  dream  of  pain. 

The  things  I  seek,  not  love  them  less. 

We  are  not  happy,  sweet !  our  state 

I  love  Love — though  he  has  wings, 

Is  strange  and  lull  of  doubt  and  fear ; 

And  like  light  can  flee. 

More  need  of  words  that  ills  abate ; — ■ 

But,  above  all  other  things, 

Reserve  or  censure  come  not  near 

Spirit,  I  love  thee— 
Thou  art  love  and  life !     0  come,  . 

Our  sacred  friendship,  lest  there  be 

No  solace  left  for  thou  and  me. 

Make  once  more  my  heart  thy  home. 

Gentle  and  good  and  mild  thou  art. 
Nor  can  I  live  if  thou  ajipcar 

' 

Aught  but  thyself,  or  turn  thine  heart 

Away  from  me,  or  stoop  to  wear 

TO 

The  mask  of  scorn,  although  it  be 

To  hide  the  love  thou  feel'st  for  me. 

When  passion's  trance  is  overpast. 

If  tenderness  and  truth  could  last 

J 

Or  live,  whilst  all  wild  feehngs  keep 
Some  mortal  slumber,  dark  and  deep. 

• 

SONG. 

I  should  not  weep,  I  should  not  weep ! 

It  were  enough  to  feel,  to  see 

Rarelt,  rarely,  coraest  thou. 

Spirit  of  Delight ! 
Wherefore  hast  thou  left  me  now 

Many  a  day  and  night  ] 

Thy  soft  eyes  gazing  tenderly, 
And  dream  the  rest — and  burn  and  be 
The  secret  food  of  fires  unseen, 
Couldst  thou  but  be  as  thou  hast  been. 

Many  a  weary  night  and  day 

After  the  slumber  of  the  year 

'Tis  since  thou  art  fled  away. 

The  woodland  violets  reappear; 

How  shall  ever  one  like  me 

Win  thee  back  again  T 
With  the  joyous  and  the  free 

All  things  revive  in  field  or  grove. 
And  sky  and  sea,  but  two,  which  move, 
And  for  all  others,  life  and  love. 

Thou  wilt  scoff  at  pain. 
Spirit  false  !  thou  hast  forgot 

\ 

* 

Ail  but  those  who  need  thee  not. 

LINES 

As  a  lizard  with  the  shade 

Of  a  trembling  leaf, 

■WniTTEX    ox    HEAlllNG    THE    XEVTS    OF    THE 

Thou  with  sorrow  art  dismayed  ; 

DEATH    OF    NAPOLEON. 

Even  the  sighs  of  grief 

Reproach  thee,  that  thou  art  not  near, 
And  reproach  thou  wilt  not  hear. 

\V"nAT  !  alive  and  so  bold,  0  Earth? 
Art  thou  not  overbold  1 

Let  me  set  my  mournful  ditty 

What !  Icapcst  thou  forth  as  of  old 

To  a  merry  measure. 

In  the  light  of  thy  morning  mirth, 

Thou  wilt  never  come  for  pity, 

The  last  of  the  flock  of  the  starry  fold  1 

Thou  wilt  come  for  pleasure. 

Ila !  leapest  thou  forth  as  of  old  ? 

Pity  then  will  cut  away 

Are  not  the  limbs  still  when  the  ghost  is  fled. 

Those  cruel  wings,  and  thou  wilt  sta3\ 
'11 

And  canst  thou  more.  Napoleon  being  dead  1 

322 


POEMS    WRITTEN    IN    1821. 


How  !  is  not  thy  quick  heart  cold  1 

What  spark  is  alive  on  thy  hearth  1 
How  !  is  not  Iiis  doath-knell  kiioUcd  1 

And  Hvest  Zhou  slill,  Motlier  Earth? 
Thou  wert  warming  thy  lingers  old 
O'er  the  embers  covered  and  cold 
Of  that  most  fiery  spirit,  when  it  fled — 
What,  Mother,  do  you  laugh  now  he  is  dead  1 
"  Who  has  knov^'n  me  of  old,"  rcphed  Earth, 

"  Or  who  has  my  story  told  1 
It  is  thou  who  art  overbold." 

And  the  lightning  of  scorn  laughed  forth 
As  she  sung,  "  To  my  bosom  I  fold 
All  my  sons  when  their  knell  is  knolled, 
And  so  with  living  motion  all  arc  fed, 
And  the  quick  spring  like  weeds  out  of  the  dead. 

'•  Still  alive  and  still  bold,"  shouted  Earth, 
"  I  grow  bolder  and  still  more  bold. 

The  dead  fill  me  ten  thousandfold 

Fuller  of  speed,  and  splendour,  and  mirth ; 

I  was  cloudy  and  sullen  and  cold, 

Like  a  fi-ozen  chaos  uprolled, 

Till  by  the  spirit  of  the  mighty  dead 

My  heart  grew  warm.     I  feed  on  whom  I  fed. 

"  Ay,  ahve  and  still  bold,"  muttered  Earth, 

"  Napoleon's  fierce  spirit  rolled, 
In  terror,  and  blood,  and  gold, 

A  torrent  of  ruin  to  death  from  his  burth. 
Leave  the  millions  who  follow  to  mould 
The  metal  before  it  be  cold; 
And  weave  into  his  shame,  which  like  the  dead 
Shrouds  me,  the  hopes  that  from  his  glory  fled." 


A  FRAG-MENT. 

As  a  violet's  gentle  eye 

Gazes  on  the  azure  sky, 
Until  its  hue  grows  like  what  it  beholds  ; 

As  a  gray  and  empty  mist 

Lies  like  solid  Amethyst, 
Over  the  western  mountain  it  enfolds, 

When  the  sunset  sleeps 
Upon  its  snow. 

As  a  strain  of  sweetest  sound 

Wraps  itself  the  wind  around,. 
Until  the  voiceless  wind  be  music  too  ; 

As  aught  dark,  vain  and  dull, 

Basking  in  what  is  beautiful, 
Is  full  of  light  and  love. 


GINEVRA* 

Wild,  pale,  and  wonder-stricken,  even  as  one 
Who  staggers  forth  into  the  air  and  sun 
From  the  dark  chamber  of  a  mortal  fever, 
Bewildered,  and  incapable,  and  ever 

♦  This  frasment  is  part  of  a  poem  which  Shellpy  in- 
tended to  write,  founded  on  a  story  to  lie  fonnd  in  the 
first  volume  of  a  book  entitled  "  L'Osservatore  Fioren- 
tino." 


Fancying  strange  comments  in  her  dizzy  brain 

Of  usual  shapes,  till  the  familiar  train 

Of  objects  and  of  persons  passed  like  things 

Strange  as  a  dreamer's  mad  imaainings, 

Ginevra  from  the  nuiilial  altar  went; 

The  vows  to  which  her  lips  had  sworn  assent 

Rung  in  her  brain  still  with  a  jarring  dm, 

Deafening  the  lost  intelligence  within. 

And  so  she  moved  under  the  bridal  veil, - 
Which  made  the  paleness  of  her  cheek  more  pale. 
And  deepened  the  faint  crimson  of  her  mouth, 
And  darkened  her  dark  locks  as  moonlight  doth, — 
And  of  tlie  gold  and  jewels  glittering  there 
She  scarce  felt  conscious, — but  the  weary  glare 
Lay  like  a  chaos  of  unwelcome  light. 
Vexing  the  sense  with  gorgeous  nndelight. 
A  moonbeam  in  the  shadow  of  a  cloud 
Was  less  heavenly  fair — her  face  was  bowed. 
And  as  she  passed,  the  diamonds  in  her  hair 
Were  mirrored  in  the  polished  marble  stair 
Which  led  from  the  cathedral  to  the  street; 
And  even  as  she  went  her  light  fair  feet 
Erased  these  images. 

The  bridemaidens  who  round  her  thronging  came, 
Some  with  a  sense  of  self-rebuke  and  shame, 
Envying  the  unenviable  ;  and  others, 
Making  the  joy  which  should  have  been  another's 
Their  own  by  gentle  sympathy  ;  and  some 
Sighing  to  think  of  an  unhappy  home  ; 
Some  few  admiring  what  can  ever  lure 
Maidens  to  leave  the  heaven  serene  and  pure 
Of  parent's  smiles  for  life's  great  cheat;  a  thing 
Bitter  to  taste,  sweet  in  imagining. 

But  they  are  all  dispersed-^-and  lo!  she  stands 
Lookiirg  in  idle  grief  on  her  white  hands. 
Alone  within  the  garden  now  her  own ; 
And  through  the  sunny  air,  with  jangling  tone. 
The  music  of  the  merrj'  marriage-bells. 
Killing  the  azure  silence,  sinks  and  swells ; — 
Absorbed  like  one  within  a  dream  who  dreams 
That  he  is  dreaming,  until  slumber  seems 
A  mockery  of  itself — when  suddenly 
Antonio  stood  before  her,  pale  as  she. 
With  agony,  with  sorrow,  and  wilh  pride. 
He  lifted  his  wan  eyes  upon  the  bride, 
And  said — Is  this  thy  faith  ]"  and  then  as  one 
Whose  sleeping  face  is  stricken  by  the  sun 
With  light  like  a  harsh  voice,  which  bids  him  rise 
And  look  upon  his  day  of  life  with  eyes 
Which  weep  in  vain  that  they  can  dream  no  more, 
Ginevra  saw  her  lover,  and  forbore 
To  shriek  or  faint,  and  checked  the  stifling  blood 
Rushing  ujjon  her  heart,  and  unsubdued 
Said — "Friend,  if  earthly  violence  or  ill. 
Suspicion,  doubt,  or  the  tyrannic  will 
Of  parents,  chance,  or  custom,  time  or  change, 
Or  circumstance,  or  terror,  or  revenge. 
Or  wildered  looks,  or  words,  or  evil  speech. 
With  all  their  stings  and  venom,  can  impeach 
Our  love, — we  love  not : — if  the  grave,  which  hides 
The  victim  from  the  tyrant,  and  divides 
The  cheek  that  whitens  from  the  eyes  that  dart 
Imperious  inquisition  to  the  heart 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


323 


That  is  another's,  could  dissever  ours, 

Wc  love  not." — "  What !  do  not  the  silent  hours 

Beckon  thee  to  Gherardi's  bridal-bed  1 

Is  not  that  ring"— — a  pledge,  he  would  have  said, 

Of  broken  vows,  but  she  with  patient  look 

The  golden  circle  from  her  finger  took. 

And  said — "  Accept  this  token  of  my  faith, 

The  pledge  of  vows  to  be  absolved  by  death, 

And  I  am  dead  or  shall  be  soon — -iny  knell 

Will  mix  its  music  with  that  merry  bell ; 

Does  it  not  sound  as  if  they  sweetly  said 

'  We  toll  a  corpse  out  of  the  marriage-bed  l' 

The  flowers  upon  my  bridal  chamber  strewn 

Will  serve  unfaded  for  my  bier — so  soon 

That  even  the  dying  violet  will  not  die 

Before  Ginevra."     The  strong  fantasy 

Had  made  her  accents  weaker  and  more  weak, 

And  quenched  the  crimson  life  upon  her  cheek, 

And  glazed  her  eyes,  and  spread  an  atmosphere 

Round  her,  which  chilled  the  burning  noon  with  fear, 

Making  her  but  an  image  of  the  thought, 

W^hich,  like  a  prophet  or  a  shadow,  brought 

News  of  the  terrors  of  the  coming  time. 

Like  an  accuser  branded  with  the  crime 

He  would  have  cast  on  a  beloved  friend, 

Whose  dying  eyes  reproach  not  to  the  end 

The  pale  betrayer — he  then  with  vain  repentance 

Would  share,  he  cannot  now  avert,  the  sentence — 

Antonio  stood  and  would  have  spoken,  when 

The  compound  voice  of  women  and  of  men 

Was  heard  approaching;  he  retired,  while  she 

Was  led  among  the  admiring  company 

Back  to  the  palace, — and  her  maidens  soon 

Changed  her  attire  for  the  afternoon. 

And  left  her  at  her  own  request  to  keep 

An  hour  of  quiet  and  rest : — like  one  asleep         * 

With  open  eyes  and  folded  hands  she  lay, 

Pale  in  the  light  of  the  declining  day. 

Meanwhile  the  day  sinks  fast,  the  sun  is  set, 
And  in  the  lighted  hall  the  guests  are  met ; 
The  beautiful  looked  lovelier  in  the  light 
Of  love,  and  admiration,  and  delight, 
Reflected  from  a  thousand  hearts  and  eyes 
Kindhng  a  momentary  Paradise. 
This  crowd  is  safer  than  the  silent  wood. 
Where  love's  own  doubts  disturb  the  solitude; 
On  frozen  hearts  the  fiery  rain  of  wine 
Falls,  and  the  dew  of  music  more  divine 
Tempers  the  deep  emotions  of  the  time 
To  spirits  cradled  in  a  sunny  clime  : — 
How  many  meet,  who  never  yet  have  met. 
To  part  too  soon,  but  never  to  forget  ? 
How  many  saw  the  beauty,  power,  and  wit 
Of  looks  and  words  w-hich  ne'er  enchanted  yet! 
But  life's  fcimiliar  veil  was  now  withdrawn, 
As  the  world  leaps  before  an  earthquake's  dawn, 
And  unprophetic  of  the  coming  hours. 
The  matin  winds  from  the  expanded  flowers 
Scatter  their  hoarded  incense,  and  awaken 
The  earth,  until  the  dewy  sleep  is  shaken 
From  ev'ery  living  heart  which  it  possesses. 
Through  seas  and  winds,  cities  and  wildernesses. 
As  if  the  future  and  the  past  were  all 
Treasured  i'  the  instant; — so  Gherardi's  hall 
Laughed  in  the  mirth  of  its  lord's  festival, 


Till  seme  one  asked — «  Where  is  the  Bridcr'And 

then 
A  bridemaid  went,  and  ere  she  came  again 
A  silence  foil  upon  the  guests — a  pause 
Of  expectation,  as  when  beauty  awes 
AH  hearts  with  its  approach,  though  mdicheld ; 
Then  wonder,  and  then  fear  that  wonder  quelled: — - 
For  whispers  passed  from  mouth  to  car  which  drew 
The  colour  from  the  hearer's  cheeks,  and  flew 
Louder  and  swifter  round  the  companj' ; 
And  then  Gherardi  entered  with  an  eye 
Of  ostentatious  trouble,  and  a  crowd 
Surrounded  him,  and  some  were  weeping  loud. 

They  found  Ginevra  dead  !  if  it  be  death. 
To  lie  without  motion,  or  pulse,  or  breath. 
With  waxen  cheeks,  and  limbs  cold,  stiff,  and  white. 
And  open  eyes,  whose  fixed  and  glassy  light 
Mocked  at  the  speculation  they  had  owned. 
If  it  be  death,  when  there  is  felt  around 
A  smell  of  clay,  a  pale  and  icy  glare, 
And  silence,  atid  a  sense  that  lifts  the  hair 
From  the  scalp  to  the  ankles,  as  it  were 
Corruption  from  the  spirit  passing  forth, 
And  giving  all  it  shrouded  to  the  earth. 
And  leaving  as  swift  lightning  in  its  flight 
Ashes,  and  smoke,  and  darkness  :  in  our  night 
Of  thought  we  know  thus  much  of  death, — no  more 
Than  the  unborn  dream  of  our  life  before 
Their  barks  are  wrecked  on  its  inhospitable  shore. 
The  marriage-feast  and  its  solemnity 
Was  turned  to  funeral  pomp — the  company, 
With  heavy  hearts  and  looks,  broke  up ;  nor  they 
Who  loved  the  dead  went  weeping  on  their  way 
Alone,  but  sorrow  mixed  with  sad  siu-prise 
Loosened  the  springs  of  pity  in  all  eyes. 
On  which  that  form,  whose  fate  they  weep  in  vain, 
Will  never,  thought  they,  kindle  smiles  again. 
The  lamps  which,  half-extinguished  in  their  ha.ste, 
Gleamed  few  and  faint  o'er  the  abandoned  feast. 
Showed  as  it  were  within  the  vaulted  room 
A  cloud  of  sorrow  hanging,  as  if  gloom 
Had  passed  out  of  men's  minds  uito  the  air. 
Some  few  yet  stood  around  Gherardi  there. 
Friends  and  relations  of  the  dead, — and  he, 
A  loveless  man,  accepted  torpidly 
The  consolation  that  he  wanted  not, 
Awe  in  the  place  of  grief  within  him  wrought 
Their  whispers  made  the  solemn  silence  seem 
More  still — some  wept,  [  ] 

Some  melted  into  tears  without  a  sob. 
And  some  with  hearts  that  might  be  heard  to  throb 
Leant  on  the  table,  and  at  intervals 
Shuddered  to  hear  through  the  deserted  halls 
And  corridors  the  thrilling  shrieks  which  came 
Upon  the  breeze  of  night,  that  shook  the  flame 
Of  every  torch  and  taper  as  it  swept 
From  out  the  chamber  where  the  women  kept; — 
Their  tears  fell  on  the  dear  companion  cold 
Of  pleasures  now  departed ;  then  was  knoUed 
The  bell  of  death,  and  soon  the  priests  arrived, 
And  finding  death  their  penitent  had  shrived. 
Returned  like  ravens  from  a  corpse  whereon 
A  vulture  has  just  feasted  to  the  bone. 
And  then  the  mourning  women  came. — 


324 


POEMS    WRITTEN    IN    182  1. 


THE  DIRGE. 


Old  winter  was  gone 
In  his  weakness  back  to  the  mountains  hoar, 

And  the  spring  came  down 
From  the  planet  that  hovers  upon  the  shore 
Where  tlic  sea  of  «unHght  encroaches 
On  the  Hmits  of  wintry  night ; — 
If  the  land,  and  the  air,  and  the  sea, 
Rejoice  not  when  spring  approaches, 
We  did  not  rejoice  in  thee, 

Gincvra ! 

She  is  still,  she  is  cold 

On  the  bridal  couch. 
One  step  to  the  white  dealh-lfed. 

And  one  to  the  bier. 
And  one  to  the  charnel — and  one,  Oh  where  ? 

The  dark  arrow  fled 

In  the  noon. 

Ere  the  sun  through  heaven  once  more  has  rolled, 
The  rats  in  her  heart 
Will  have  made  their  nest, 
And  the  worms  be  alive  m  her  golden  hair ; 
Wliile  the  spirit  that  guides  the  sun 
Sits  throned  in  his  flaming  chair. 
She  shall  sleep. 
***** 


EVENING. 

PONTE    A    MARE,    PISA. 


The  sun  is  set ;  the  swallows  are  asleep ; 

The  bats  are  flitting  fast  in  the  gray  air ; 
The  slow  soft  toads  out  of  damp  corners  creep ; 

And  evening's  breath,  wandering  here  and  there 
Over  the  quivering  surface  of  the  stream. 
Wakes  not  one  ripple  from  its  summer  dream. 

There  are  no  dews  on  the  dry  grass  to-night, 
Nor  damp  within  the  shadow  of  the  trees; 

The  wind  is  intermitting,  dry,  and  light ; 

And  in  the  inconstant  motion  of  the  breeze 

The  (lust  and  straws  are  driven  up  and  down, 

And  whirled  about  the  pavement  of  the  town. 

Within  the  surface  of  the  fleeting  river 
The  wrinkled  imago  of  the  city  lay. 

Immovably  unquiet,  and  for  ever 
It  trembles,  but  it  never  fades  away ; 

Go  to  the  [  ] 

You,  being  changed,  will  find  it  then  as  now. 

The  chasm  in  which  the  sun  has  sunk,  is  shut 
By  darkest  barriers  of  enormous  cloud. 

Like  mountain  over  mountain  huddled — ^Imt 
Growing  and  moving  upwards  in  a  crowd. 

And  over  it  a  space  of  watery  blue, 

Which  the  keen  evening  star  is  shining  through. 


TO-MORROW. 

WfiEnE  art  thou,  beloved  To-morrow'? 

When  young  and  old,  and  strong  and  weak, 
Rich  and  poor,  through  joy  and  sorrow. 

Thy  sweet  smiles  we  ever  seek, — 
In  thy  place — ah  !  wcll-a-day  ! 
We  find  the  tiling  we  fled — To-day. 


A  BRIDAL  SONG. 

The  golden  gates  of  sleep  unbar 

Where  strength  and  beauty  met  together. 
Kindle  their  image  like  a  star 

In  a  sea  of  glassy  weather. 
Night,  with  all  thy  stars  look  do'wn, — 

Darkness,  weep  thy  holiest  dew, — 
Never  smiled  the  inconstant  moon 

On  a  pair  so  true. 
Let  ej'es  not  see  their  own  delight ; — 
Haste,  swift  Hour,  and  thy  flight 
Oft  renew. 

Fairies,  sprites,  and  angels,  keep  her ! 

Holy  stars,  permit  no  wrong ! 
And  return  to  wake  the  sleeper. 

Dawn, — ere  it  be  long. 
0  joy  !  O  fear !  what  will  be  done 

In  the  absence  of  the  smi ! 
Come  along! 


A  LAMENT. 


Swifter  far  than  summer's  flight. 
Swifter  far  than  youth's  delight. 
Swifter  ilu"  than  happy  night. 

Art  thou  come  and  gone  : 
As  the  earth  when  leaves  are  dead. 
As  the  night  when  sleep  is  sped. 
As  the  heart  when  joy  is  fled, 

I  am  left  lone,  alone. 

The  swallow  Summer  comes  again. 
The  owlet  Night  resumes  her  reign. 
But  the  wild  swan  Youth  is  fain 

To  fly  with  thee,  false  as  thou. 
My  heart  each  day  desires  the  morrow. 
Sleep  itself  is  turned  to  sorrow. 
Vainly  would  my  winter  borrow 

Sunny  leaves  iiom  any  bough. 

Lilies  for  a  bridal  bed, 
Roses  for  a  matron's  head, 
Violets  for  a  maiden  dead, 

Pansies  let  my  flowers  be : 
On  the  living  grave  I  bear. 
Scatter  tliom  without  a  tear. 
Let  no  friend,  however  dear, 

Waste  one  hope,  one  fear  for  me. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


325 


THE  BOAT, 

ox    THE    SEHCIIIO. 


OuK  boat  is  asleep  on  Scrchio's  stream, 
Its  sails  are  folded  like  thoughts  in  a  dream, 
T'hc  helm  sways  idl_y,  hithor  and  thither ; 
Dominic,  the  boatman,  has  brought  the  mast, 
And  the  oars  and  the  sails;  but 'tis  sleeping  fast. 
Like  a  beast  unconscious  of  its  tether. 

The  stars  burnt  out  in  the  pale  blue  air. 

And  the  thin  white  moon  lay  withering  there. 

To  tower,  and  cavern,  and  rift,  and  tree. 

The  owl  and  the  bat  fled  drowsily. 

Day  had  kindled  the  dewy  woods 

And  the  rocks  above  and  the  stream  below, 

And  the  vapours  in  their  multitudes. 

And  the  Apennines' shroud  of  summer  snow, 

And  clothed  with  light  of  aery  gold 

The  mists  in  their  eastern  caves  uprolled. 

Day  had  awakened  all  things  that  be, 
The  lark  and  the  thrush  and  the  swallow  free ; 
And  the  milkmaid's  song  and  the  mower's  scythe, 
And  the  matin-bell  and  the  mountain  bee : 
Fireflies  were  quenched  on  the  de^^-y  corn. 
Glowworms  went  out  on  the  river's  brim, 
Like  lamps  which  a  student  forgets  to  trim  : 
The  beetle  forgot  to  wind  his  horn, 
The  crickets  were  still  in  the  meadow  and  hill : 
Like  a  flock  of  rooks  at  a  farmer's  gun. 
Night's  dreams  and  terrors,  every  one. 
Fled  from  the  brains  whicli  are  their  prey. 
From  the  lamp's  death  to  the  morning  ray. 

All  rose  to  do  the  task  He  set  to  each. 
Who  shaped  us  to  his  ends  and  not  our  own ; 
The  million  rose  to  leam,  and  one  to  teach 
VVhat  none  j'et  ever  knew  or  can  be  known. 

And  many  rose 
Whose  wo  was  such  that  fear  became  desire  ; — 
Mclchior  and  Lionel  were  not  among  those  ; 
They  from  the  throng  of  men  had  stepped  aside. 
And  made  their  home  under  the  green  hill  side. 
It  was  that  hill,  whose  intervening  brow 
Screens  Lucca  from  the  Pisan's  envious  eye, 
Which  the  circumfluous  plain  waving  below. 
Like  a  wide  lake  of  green  fertility. 
With  streams  and  fields  and  marshes  bare. 
Divides  from  the  far  Apennines — which  lie 
Islanded  in  the  immeasurable  air. 

"  What  think  you,  as  she  lies  in  her  green  cove, 

Our  httle  sleeping  boat  is  dreaming  of? 

If  morning  dreams  are  true,  why  I  should  guess 

That  she  was  dreaming  of  our  idleness, 

And  of  the  miles  of  watery  way 

We  should  have  led  her  by  this  time  of  day." — • 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Lionel, 

"  Give  care  to  the  winds,  they  can  bear  it  well. 
About  yon  poplar  tops ;  and  see  ! 
The  white  clouds  are  driving  merrily. 


And  the  stars  we  miss  this  mom  will  light 
More  willingly  our  return  to  night. — 
List,  my  dear  fellow,  the  breeze  blows  fair ; 
How  it  scatters  Dominic's  long  black  hair  ! 
Singing  of  us,  and  our  lazy  motions. 
If  I  can  guess  a  boat's  emotions." — 

The  chain  is  loosed,  the  sails  are  spread, 

'I'he  living  breath  is  fresh  behind, 

As,  with  dews  and  sunrise  fed, 

Comes  the  laughing  morning  wind  ; — • 

The  sails  arc  full,  the  boat  makes  head 

Against  the  Serchio's  torrent  fierce. 

Then  flags  with  intermitting  course, 

And  hangs  upon  the  wave, 

Which  fervid  from  its  mountain  source 

Shallow,  smooth,  and  strong,  doth  come, — • 

Swift  as  fire,  tempestuously 

It  sweeps  into  the  affrighted  sea ; 

In  morning's  smile  its  eddies  coil, 

Its  billows  sparkle,  toss,  and  boil, 

Torturing  all  its  quiet  light 

Into  columns  fierce  and  bright. 

The  Serchio,  twisting  forth 
Between  the  marble  barriers  which  it  clove 
At  Ripafratta,  leads  through  the  dread  clia.sm 
The  wave  that  died  the  death  which  lovers  love, 
Living  in  what  it  sought ;  as  if  this  spasm 
Had  not  yet  past,  the  toppling  mountains  cling, 
But  the  clear  stream  in  full  enthusiasm 
Pours  itself  on  the  plain,  until  wandering, 
Down  one  clear  path  of  efl3uence  crystalline 
Sends  its  clear  waves,  that  they  may  fling 
At  Arno's  feet  tribute  of  com  and  wine  : 
Then,  through  the  pestilential  deserts  wild 
Of  tangled  marsh  and  woods  of  stunted  fir, 
It  rushes  to  the  Ocean. 
July,  1821. 


THE  AZIOLA. 

"  Do  you  not  hear  the  Aziola  cry  ? 
Methinks  she  must  be  nigh," 

Said  Mary,  as  we  sate 
In  dusk,  ere  the  stars  were  lit,  or  candles  brought ; 

And  I,  who  thought 
This  Aziola  was  some  tedious  woman. 

Asked,  "  Who  is  Aziola  ?"    How  elate 
I  felt  to  know  that  it  was  nothing  human. 

No  mockery  of  myself  to  fear  and  hate  ! 

And  Mary  saw  my  soul, 
And  laughed  and  said,  "  Disquiet  yourself  not, 

'Tis  nothing  but  a  little  downy  owl." 

Sad  Aziola !  many  an  eventide 

Thy  music  I  had  heard 
By  wood  and  stream,  meadow  and  mountain  side, 
And  fields  and  marshes  wide, — 

Such  as  nor  voice,  nor  lute,  nor  wind,  nor  bird, 

The  soul  ever  stirred ; 
Unlike  and  far  sweeter  than  they  all: 
Sad  Aziola !  from  that  moment  I 
Loved  thee  and  thy  sad  cry. 
2E 


326 


POEMS    WRITTEN    IN    18  2  1. 


A  FRAGMENT. 

Thet  were  two  cousins,  almost  like  two  twins, 
Except  that  from  the  catalogue  of  sins 
Nature  had  razed  their  love — which  could  not  be 
But  by  dissevering  their  nativity. 
And  so  they  grew  together,  like  two  flowers 
Upon  one  stem,  which  the  same  beams  and  showers 
Lull  or  awaken  in  their  purjile  prime. 
Which  the  same  hand  will  gather — the  same  clime 
Shake  with  decay.     This  fair  day  smiles  to  see 
AH  those  who  love, — and  who  ever  loved  like  thee, 
Fiordispina  1    Scarcely  Cosimo, 
Within  whose  bosom  and  whose  brain  now  glow 
The  ardours  of  a  vision  which  obscure 
The  very  idol  of  its  portraiture  ; 
He  faints,  dissolved  into  a  sense  of  love ; 
But  thou  art  as  a  planet  sphered  above, 
But  thou  art  Love  itself — ruling  the  motion 
Of  liis  subjected  spirit — such  emotion 
Must  end  in  sin  or  sorrow,  if  sweet  May 
Had  not  brought  forth  this  morn — ^your  wedding- 
day. 


TO 


OxE  word  is  too  oftened  profaned 

For  me  to  profane  it. 
One  feeling  too  falsely  disdained 

For  thee  to  disdain  it. 
One  hope  is  too  like  despair 

For  prudence  to  smother. 
And  Pity  from  thee  more  dear 

Than  that  from  another. 

I  can  give  not  what  men  call  love, 

But  wilt  thou  accept  not 
The  worshij)  the  heart  lifts  above 

And  the  Heavens  reject  not : 
The  desire  of  the  moth  for  the  star, 

Of  the  night  for  the  morrow, 
The  devotion  to  something  afar 

From  the  sphere  of  our  sorrow. 


GOOD-NIGHT. 

Goon-NiGHT  1   ah!  no;  the  hour  is  ill 
Which  severs  those  it  should  unite  ; 

Let  us  remain  together  still. 
Then  it  will  be  good  night. 

How  can  I  call  the  lone  night  good. 

Though  thy  sweet  wishes  wing  its  flight? 

Be  it  not  said,  thought,  understood. 
Then  it  will  be  good  night. 

To  hearts  which  near  each  other  move 
From  evening  close  to  morning  light, 

The  night  is  good ;  because,  my  love, 
They  never  say  good-night. 


LINES  TO  AN  INDIAN  AIR. 


1  AnisE  from  dreams  of  thee 
In  the  first  sweet  sleep  of  night. 
When  the  winds  are  breatiiing  low, 
And  the  stars  are  shining  bright. 
I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee. 
And  a  spirit  in  my  feet 
Has  led  me — who  knows  how  1 
To  thy  chamber  window,  sweet ! 

The  wandering  airs  they  faint 
On  the  dark,  the  silent  stream — 
The  champak  odouVs  fail    . 
Like  sweet  thoughts  in  a  dream ; 
The  nightingale's  complaint. 
It  dies  upon  her  heart, 
As  I  must  die  on  thine, 
O  beloved  as  thou  art. 

0  lift  me  from  the  grass ! 

1  die,  I  faint,  I  fail ! 

Let  thy  love  in  kisses  rain 
On  my  lips  and  eyelids  pale. 
My  cheek  is  cold  and  white,  alas ! 
My  heart  beats  loud  and  fast, 
Oh  !  press  it  close  to  thine  again, 
Where  it  will  break  at  last. 


MUSIC. 


I  PAXT  for  the  music  which  is  divine. 
My  heart  in  its  thirst  is  a  dying  flower ; 

Pour  forth  the  sound  like  enchanted  wine. 
Loosen  the  notes  in  a  silver  shower ; 

Like  an  herbless  plain  for  the  gentle  rain, 

I  gasp,  I  faint,  till  they  wake  again. 

Let  me  drink  of  the  spirit  of  that  sweet  sound, 
More,  O  more  ! — I  am  thirsting  yet. 

It  loosens  the  serpent  which  care  has  bound 
Upon  my  heart,  to  stifle  it ; 

The  dissolving  strain,  through  every  vein, 

Passes  into  my  heart  and  brain. 

As  the  scent  of  a  violet  withered  up. 

Which  grew  by  the  brink  of  a  silver  lake, 

When  the  hot  noon  has  drained  its  dewy  cup, 
And  mist  there  was  none  its  thirst  to  slake — 

And  the  violet  lay  dead  while  the  odour  flew 

On  the  wings  of  the  wind  o'er  the  waters  blue — 

As  one  who  drinks  from  a  charmed  cup 

Of  foaming,  and  sparkling,  and  murmuring  wine. 

Whom,  a  mighty  Enchantress  lilling  up. 
Invites  to  love  with  her  kiss  divine. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


327 


TO 


The  serpent  is  shut  out  from  paradise. 

Tlie  wounded  deer  must  seek  the  herb  no  more 

In  which  its  heart-cure  lies  : 
The  widowed  dove  must  cease  to  liaunt  a  bower, 
Like  that  from  which  its  male  with  feigned  sighs 

Fled  in  the  April  hour. 
I  too,  must  seldom  seek  again 
Near  happy  friends  a  mitigated  pain. 


Of  liatred  I  am  proud, — with  scorn  content ; 
Indifference,  that  once  hurt  me,  now  is  grown 

Itself  indifferent. 
But,  not  to  speak  of  love,  pit}'  alone 
Can  break  a  spirit  already  more  than  bent. 

The  miserable  one 
Turns  the  mind's  poison  into  food, — 
Its  medicine  is  tears, — its  evil  good. 


Therefore  if  now  I  see  you  seldomer, 

Dear  friends,  dear  friend  /  know  that  I  only  fly 

Your  looks  because  tiiej-  stir 
Griefs  that  should  sleep,  and  hopes  that  cannot  die ; 
The  very  comfort  that  they  minister 

I  scarce  can  bear ;  yet  I, 
So  deeply  is  the  arrow  gone, 
Should  quickly  perish  if  it  were  withdrawn. 

IT. 

When  I  return  to  my  cold  home,  you  ask 
Why  I  am  not  as  I  have  ever  been  1 

You  spoil  me  for  the  task 
Of  acting  a  forced  part  on  hfe's  dull  scene. — 
Of  wearing  on  my  brow  the  idle  mask 

Of  author,  great  or  mean, 
In  the  world's  Carnival.     I  sought 
Peace  thus,  and  but  in  jou  I  found  it  not. 


Full  half  an  hour,  to-day,  I  tried  my  lot 
With  vai-ious  flowers,  and  every  one  still  said, 

"She  loves  me, loves  me  not."* 

And  if  this  meant  a  vision  long  since  fled — 
If  it  meant  fortune,  fame,  or  peace  of  thought — 

If  it  meant — but  I  dread 
To  speak  wliat  you  may  know  too  well : 
Stin  there  was  truth  in  the  sad  oracle. 


The  crane  o'er  seas  and  forests  seeks  her  home ; 
No  bird  so  wild,  but  has  its  quiet  nest. 

When  it  no  more  would  roam  ; 
The  sleepless  billows  on  the  ocean's  breast 
Break  like  a  bursting  heart,  and  die  in  foam, 

And  thus,  at  length,  find  rest : 
Doubtless  there  is  a  place  of  peace 
Where  my  weak  heart  and  all  its  throbs  will  cease. 


I  asked  her,  yesterday,  if  she  believed 
That  I  had  resolution.     One  who  Jiad 

Would  ne'er  have  thus  relieved 
His  heart  with  words, — but  what  his  judgment  hade 
Would  do,  and  leave  the  scorner  unrelieved. 

These  verses  are  too  sad 
To  send  to  you,  but  that  I  know, 
Happy  yourself,  you  feel  another's  wo. 


A  LAMENT. 


0  World !  O  life !  O  time ! 
On  whose  last  steps  I  climb. 

Trembling  at  that  where  I  had  stood  before  ; 
When  will  return  the  glory  of  your  prime  1 
No  more — Oh,  never  more  ! 

Out  of  the  day  and  night 
A  joy  has  taken  flight : 

Fresh  spring,  and  summer,  and  winter  hoar. 
Move  my  fliint  heart  with  grief,  but  with  delight 
No  more — Oh,  never  more  ! 


SONNET. 

POLITICAL    GREAT>'ESS. 

Nor  happiness,  nor  majesty,  nor  fame, 
Nor  peace,  nor  strength,  nor  skill  in  arms  or  arts, 
Shepherd  those  herds  whom  tyranny  makes  tame  ; 
Verse  echoes  not  one  beating  of  their  hearts ; 
History  is  but  the  shadow  of  their  shame  ; 
Art  veils  her  glass,  or  fi-om  the  pageant  starts 
As  to  oblivion  their  blind  millions  fleet, 
Staining  that  Heaven  with  obscene  imagery 
Of  their  own  likeness.     What  arc  numbers,  knit 
By  force  or  custom  1     Man  who  man  would  be, 
Must  rule  the  empire  of  himself!  in  it 
Must  be  supreme,  establishing  his  throne 
On  vanquished  will,  quelling  the  anarchy 
Of  hopes  and  fears,  being  himself  alone. 


DIRGE  FOR  THE  YEAR. 


OuPHAX  hours,  the  year  is  dead, 
Come  and  sigh,  come  and  weep  ! 

Merry  hours,  smile  instead. 
For  the  year  is  but  asleep  : 

See,  it  smiles  as  it  is  sleeping. 

Mocking  your  untimely  weeping. 

As  an  earthquake  rocks  a  corse 

In  its  coffni  in  the  clay. 
So  White  Winter,  that  rough  nurse, 

Rocks  the  dead-cold  year  to-day  ; 
Solemn  hours  !  wail  aloud 
For  your  mother  in  her  shroud. 


328 


EDITOR'S    NOTE    ON    POEMS    OF    1821. 


As  the  wild  air  stirs  and  sways 
The  tree-swung  cradle  of  a  child, 

So  the  hrcath  of  these  rude  days 

Rocks  the  vcar: — be  calm  and  mild, 

Trembling  hours ;  she  will  arise 

With  new  love  within  her  eyes. 


January  gray  is  here, 

Like  a  sexton  by  her  grave ; 

February  bears  the  bier, 

March  with  grief  doth  howl  and  rave, 

And  April  weeps — but,  O  ye  hours ! 

Follow  with  May's  fairest  flowers. 


NOTE  ON  THE  POEMS  OF  1821. 

BY  THE  EDITOR. 


Mr  task  becomes  inexpressibly  painful  as  the 
year  draws  near  that  which  sealed  our  earthly 
fate ;  and  each  poem  and  each  event  it  records, 
has  a  real  or  mysterious  connexion  with  the  fatal 
catastrophe.  I  feel  that  I  am  incapable  of  putting 
on  paper  the  history  of  those  times.  .  The  heart  of 
the  man,  abhorred  of  the  poet. 

Who  could  peep  and  botanize  upon  his  mother's  grave, 

does  not  appear  to  me  less  inexplicably  framed 
than  that  of  one  who  can  dissect  and  probe  past 
woes,  and  repeat  to  the  public  ear  the  groans  drawn 
from  them  in  the  throes  of  their  agony. 

The  year  1821  was  spent  in  Pisa,  or  at  the  baths 
of  San  GiuUano.  We  were  not,  as  our  wont  had 
been,  alone  —  friends  had  gathered  round  us. 
Nearly  all  are  dead  ;  and  when  memory  recurs  to 
the  past,  she  wanders  among  tombs:  the  genius 
with  all  his  blighting  errors  and  mighty  powers ; 
the  companion  of  Shelley's  ocean-wanderings,  and 
the  sharer  of  his  fate,  than  whom  no  man  ever 
existed  more  gentle,  generous,  and  fearless  ;  and 
others,  who  found  in  Shelley's  society,  and  in  his 
great  knowledge  and  warm  sympathy,  delight  in- 
struction and  solace,  have  joined  him  beyond  the 
grave.  A  few  survive  who  have  felt  life  a  desert 
since  he  left  it.  What  misfortune  can  equal  death  T 
Change  can  convert  every  other  into  a  blessing,  or 
heal  its  sting — death  alone  has  no  cure  ;  it  shakes 
the  foundations  of  the  earth  on  which  we  tread,  it 
destroys  its  beauty,  it  casts  down  our  shelter,  it 
exposes  us  bare  to  desolation;  when  those  we  love 
have  passed  into  eternity,  "  life  is  the  desert  and 
the  solitude,"  in  which  we  are  forced  to  linger — 
but  never  find  comfort  more. 

There  is  much  in  the  Adonais  which  seems  now 
more  applicable  to  Shelley  himself,  than  to  the 
young  and  gifted  poet  whom  he  mourned.  The 
poetic  view  he  takes  of  death,  and   the  lofty  scorn 


he  displays  towards  his  calumniators,  are  as  a 
prophecy  on  his  own  destiny,  when  received  among 
immortal  names,  and  the  poisonous  breath  of  critics 
has  vanished  into  emptiness  before  the  fame  he 
inherits. 

Shelley's  favourite  taste  was  boating;  when 
living  near  the  Thames,  or  by  the  lake  of  Geneva, 
much  of  his  life  was  spent  on  the  water.  On  the 
shore  of  every  lake,  or  stream,  or  sea,  near  which 
he  dwelt,  he  had  a  boat  moored.  He  had  latterly 
enjoyed  this  pleasure  again.  There  are  no 
pleasure-boats  on  the  Arno,  and  the  shallowness 
of  its  waters  except  in  winter  time,  when  the  stream 
is  too  turbid  and  impetuous  for  boating,  rendered 
it  difficult  to  get  any  skifiT  light  enough  to  float. 
Shelley,  however,  overcame  the  difiiculty ;  he, 
together  with  a  friend,  contrived  a  boat  such  as  the 
huntsmen  carrj'  about  with  them  in  the  Maremma, 
to  cross  the  shiggish  but  deep  streams  that  inter- 
sect the  forests,  a  boat  of  laths  and  pitched  canvass  ; 
it  held  three  persons,  and  he  was  often  seen  on  the 
Arno  in  it,  to  the  horror  of  the  Italians,  who  re- 
monstrated on  the  danger,  and  could  not  understand 
how  any  one  could  take  pleasure  in  an  exercise 
that  risked  life.  "  Ma  va  per  la  vita !"  they  ex- 
claimed. I  little  thought  how  true  their  words 
would  prove.  He  once  ventured  with  a  friend,  on 
the  glassy  sea  of  a  calm  day,  down  the  Arno  and 
round  the  coast,  to  Leghorn,  which  by  keeping 
close  in  shore  was  very  practicable.  They  returned 
to  Pisa  by  the  canal,  when,  missing  the  direct  cut, 
they  got  entangled  among  weeds,  and  the  boat 
upset ;  a  wetting  was  all  the  harm  done,  except 
that  the  intense  cold  of  his  drenched  clothes  made 
Shelley  faint.  Once  I  went  down  with  him  to  the 
mouth  of  the  Arno,  where  the  stream,  then  high 
and  swift,  met  the  tidcless  sea  and  disturbed  its 
sluggish  waters ;  it  was  a  waste  and  dreary  scene ; 
the  desert  sand  stretched  into  a  point  surrounded 
by  waves  that  broke  idly  though  perpetually  arotmd ; 


EDITOR'S    NOTE    ON    POEMS    OF    182  1. 


329 


it  was  a  scene  very  similar  to  Lido,  of  which  he 
had  said, — 

I  love  all  waste 
And  Kdlitary  places  j  where  we  taste 
The  pli'asuro  ot"  believing  what  we  see 
Is  houiidless,  as  we  wish  our  souls  to  be  ; 
And  such  was  this  wide  ocean,  and  this  shore 
More  barren  than  its  billows. 

Our  Httle  boat  was  of  greater  use,  unaccompanied 
by  any  danger,  wlicn  we  removed  to  the  baths. 
Some  friends  hved  at  the  village  of  Pugnano,  four 
miles  off,  and  we  went  to  and  fro  to  see  them,  in 
our  boat,  by  the  canal ;  which,  fed  by  the  Serchio, 
was  though  an  artiticial,  a  full  and  picturesque 
stream,  making  its  way  under  verdant  banks 
sheltered  by  trees  that  dipped  their  boughs  into  the 
murmuring  waters.  By  day,  multitudes  of  ephe- 
mera darted  to  and  fro  on  the  surface  ;  at  night 
the  fireflies  came  out  among  the  shrubs  on  the 
banks ;  the  cicale  at  noonday  kept  up  their  hum : 
the  aziola  cooed  in  the  quiet  evening.  It  was  a 
pleasant  summer,  bright  in  all  but  Shelley's  health 
and  inconstant  spirits  ;  yet  he  enjoyed  himself 
greatly,  and  became  more  and  more  attached  to  the 
part  of  the  country  where  chance  appeared  to  cast 
us.  Sometimes  he  projected  taking  a  farm,  situated 
on  the  height  of  one  of  the  near  hills,  surrounded 
by  chestnut  and  pine  woods,  and  overlooking  a  wide 
extent  of  country  ;  or  of  settling  still  further  in  the 
maritime  Apennines,  at  Massa.  Several  of  his 
slighter  and  unfinished  poems  were  inspired  by 
these  scenes,  and  by  the  companions  around  us. 
It  is  the  nature  of  that  poetry  however  which  over- 
flows from  the  soul  oft;ener  to  express  sorrow  and 
regret  than  joy  ;  for  it  is  when  oppressed  by  the 
weight  of  life,  and  away  from  those  he  loves,  that 
the  poet  has  recourse  to  the  solace  of  expression 
in  verse. 

Still  Shelley's  passion  was  the  ocean  ;  and  he 
wished  that  our  summers,  instead  of  being  passed 
among  the  hills  near  Pisa,  should  be  spent  on  the 


shores  of  the  sea.  It  was  very  difficult  to  find  a 
spot.  We  shrank  from  Naples  from  a  fear  that  the 
heats  would  disagree  with  Percy ;  Leghorn  had 
lost  its  only  attraction  since  our  friends  who  had 
resided  there  were  returned  to  England ;  and 
Monte  Nero  being  the  resort  of  many  Enghsh,  we 
did  not  wish  to  find  ourselves  in  the  midst  of  the 
colony  of  chance  travellers.  No  one  then  thought 
it  possible  to  reside  at  Via  Rcggio,  which  latterly 
has  become  a  summer  resort.  The  low  lands  and 
bad  air  of  Maremma  stretch  the  whole  length  of 
the  western  shores  of  the  Mediterranean,  till  broken 
by  the  rocks  and  hills  of  Spezia.  It  was  a  vague 
idea ;  but  Shelley  suggested  an  excursion  to  Spezia, 
to  see  whether  it  would  be  feasible  to  spend  a 
summer  there.  The  beauty  of  the  bay  enchanted 
him — ^we  saw  no  house  to  suit  us — but  the  notion 
took  root,  and  many  circumstances,  enchained  as 
by  fatality,  occurred  to  urge  him  to  execute  it. 

.  He  looked  forward  this  autumn  with  great 
pleasure  to  the  prospect  of  a  visit  from  Leigh  Hunt. 
When  Shelley  visited  Lord  Byron  at  Ravenna, 
the  latter  had  suggested  his  coming  out,  together 
with  the  plan  of  a  periodical  work,  in  which  they 
should  all  join.  Shelley  saw  a  prospect  of  good 
for  the  fortunes  of  his  friend,  and  pleasure  in  his 
society,  and  instantly  exerted  himself  to  have  the 
plan  executed.  He  did  not  intend  himself  joining 
in  the  work ;  partly  from  pride,  not  wishing  to 
have  the  air  of  acquiring  readers  for  his  poetry  by 
associating  itwith  the  compositions  of  more  popular 
writers  ;  and,  also,  because  he  might  feel  shackled 
in  the  free  expression  of  his  opinions,  if  any  friends 
were  to  be  compromised  ;  by  those  opinions  earned 
even  to  their  utmost  extent,  he  wished  to  live  and 
die,  as  being  in  his  conviction  not  only  true,  but 
such  as  alone  would  conduce  to  the  moral  improve- 
ment and  happiness  of  mankind.  The  sale  of  the 
work  might,  meanwhile,  either  reall}'  or  supposedly, 
be  injured  by  the  fi-ee  expression  of  his  thoughts, 
and  this  evil  he  resolved  to  avoid. 


42 


2e2 


POEMS  WEITTEN  IN  MDCCCXXIL 


THE  ZUCCA.* 


j    SuMMEU  was  dead  and  Autumn  was  expiring, 
And  infant  Winter  laughed  upon  the  land 

AH  cloudlessly  and  cold ; — when  I,  desiring 
More  in  this  world  than  any  understand, 

Wept  o'er  the  beauty,  which,  like  sea  retiring. 
Had  left  the  earth  bare  as  the  wave-worn  sand 

Of  my  poor  heart,  and  o'er  the  grass  and  flowers 

Pale  for  the  falsehood  of  the  flattering  hours. 

Summer  was  dead,  but  I  )'et  lived  to  weep 
The  instability  of  all  but  weeping ; 

And  on  the  earth  lulled  in  her  winter  sleep 
I  woke,  and  envied  her  as  she  was  sleeping. 

Too  happy  Earth !  over  thy  face  shall  creep 
The  wakening  vernal  airs,  until  thou,  leaping 

From  unremembered  dreams  shalt  [  ]  see 

No  death  divide  thy  immortality. 

I  loved — O  no,  I  mean  not  one  of  ye, 
Or  any  earthly  one,  though  ye  are  dear 

As  human  heart  to  human  heart  may  be ; — 
I  loved,  I  know  not  what — but  this  low  sphere, 

And  all  that  it  contains,  contains  not  thee, 

Thou,  whom,  seen  nowhere,  I  feel  every  where, 

Dim  object  of  my  soul's  idolatry. 

By  Heaven  and  Earth,  from  all  whose  shapes  thou 
flowest, 

Neither  to  be  contained,  delayed,  or  hidden, 
Making  divine  the  loftiest  and  the  lowest, 

When  for  a  moment  thou  art  not  forbidden 
To  live  within  the  life  which  thou  bestowest, 

And  leaving  noblest  things,  vacant  and  chidden. 
Cold  as  a  corpse  after  the  spirit's  flight. 
Blank  as  the  sun  after  the  birth  of  night. 

In  winds,  and  trees,  and  streams,  and  all  tlnngs 
common. 

In  music,  and  the  sweet  imcon  scions  tone 
Of  animals,  and  voices  which  are  human, 

Meant  to  express  some  feelings  of  their  own ; 
In  the  soft  motions  and  rare  smile  of  woman, 

In  flowers  and  leaves,  and  in  the  fresh  grass 
shown. 
Or  dying  in  the  autumn,  I  the  most 
Adore  thee  present,  or  lament  thee  lost. 

♦  Pumpkin. 


And  thus  I  went  lamenting,  when  I  saw 
A  plant  upon  the  river's  margin  lie. 

Like  one  who  loved  beyond  his  Nature's  law. 
And  in  despair  had  cast  him  down  to  die ; 

Its  leaves  which  had  outlived  the  frost,  the  thaw 
Had  blighted  as  a  heart  which  hatred's  eye 

Can  blast  not,  but  which  pity  kills ;  the  dew 

Lay  on  its  spotted  leaves  like  tears  too  true. 

The  Heavens  had  wept  upon  it,  but  the  Earth 
Had  crushed  it  on  her  unmaternal  breast 


I  bore  it  to  my  chamber,  and  I  planted 
It  in  a  vase  full  of  the  lightest  mould ; 
The  winter  beams  which  out  of  Heaven  slanted 

Fell  through  the  window  panes,  disrobed  of  cold. 
Upon  its  leaves  and  flowers ;  the  star  which  panted 

In  evening  for  the  Day,  whose  car  has  rolled 
Over  the  horizon's  wave,  with  looks  of  light 
Smiled  on  it  from  the  threshold  of  the  night. 

The  mitigated  influences  of  air 

And  light  revived  the  plant,  and  from  it  grew 
Strong  leaves  and  tendrils,  and  its  flowers  fair. 

Full  as  a  cup  with  the  vine's  burning  dew, 
O'erflowed  with  golden  colours;  an  atmosphere 

Of  vital  warmth,  enfolded  it  anew. 
And  every  impulse  sent  to  every  part 
The  unbeheld  pulsations  of  its  heart. 

Well  might  the  plant  grow  beautiful  and  strong, 
Even  if  the  sun  and  air  had  smiled  not  on  it ; 

For  one  wept  o'er  it  all  the  winter  long 

Tears  pure  as  Heaven's  rain,  which  fell  upon  it 

Hour  after  hour ;  for  sounds  of  softest  song 
Mixed  with  the  stringed  melodies  that  won  it 

To  leave  the  gentle  lips  on  which  it  slept. 

Had  loosed  the  heart  of  him  who  sat  and  wept. 

Had  loosed  his  heart,  and  shook  the  leaves  and 
■flowers 

On  which  he  wept,  the  while  the  savage  storm 
Waked  by  the  darkest  of  December's  hours 

Was  raving   round  the   chamber  hushed  and 
warm ; 
The  birds  were  shivering  in  their  leafless  bowers, 

The  fish  were  frozen  in  the  ])ools,  the  form 
Of  every  summer  plant  was  dead  [  ] 

Whilst  "this  *  •  * 

January,  1822. 


MAGNETIC    LADY    TO    HER    PATIENT. 


331 


TO  A  LADY  WITH  A  GUITAR. 


AuiKL  to  Miranda: — Take 

This  slave  of  music,  for  the  sake 

Of  hiin,  who  is  the  slave  of  thee ; 

And  teach  it  all  the  harmony 

In  which  thou  canst,  and  only  thou, 

Make  the  delighted  spirit  glow, 

Till  joy  denies  itself  again. 

And,  too  intense,  is  turned  to  pain. 

For  by  permission  and  command 

Of  thine  own  Prince  Ferdinand, 

Poor  Ariel  sends  this  silent  token 

Of  more  than  ever  can  be  spoken ; 

Your  guardian  spirit,  Ariel,  who 

From  life  to  life  must  still  pursue 

Your  happiness,  for  thus  alone 

Can  Ariel  ever  find  his  own  ; 

From  Prospero's  enchanted  cell, 

As  the  mighty  verses  tell, 

To  the  throne  of  Naples  he 

Lit  you  o'er  the  trackless  sea, 

Flitting  on,  your  prow  before, 

Like  a  living  meteor. 

When  you  die,  the  silent  Moon, 

In  her  interlunar  swoon, 

Is  not  sadder  in  her  cell 

Than  deserted  Ariel ; 

When  you  live  again  on  earth, 

Like  an  unseen  Star  of  birth, 

Ariel  guides  you  o'er  the  sea 

Of  life  from  your  nativity  : 

Many  changes  have  been  run 

Since  Ferdinand  and  you  begun 

Your  course  of  love,  and  Ariel  still 

Has  tracked  your  steps  and  served  your  will. 

Now  in  humbler,  happier  lot, 

This  is  all  remembered  not ; 

And  now,  alas !  the  poor  sprite  is 

Imprisoned  for  some  fault  of  his 

In  a  body  hke  a  grave — 

From  you,  he  only  dares  to  crave, 

For  his  service  and  his  sorrow, 

A  smile  to-day,  a  song  to-moiTow. 

The  artist  who  this  idol  wrought, 

To  echo  all  harmonious  thought. 

Felled  a  tree,  while  on  the  steep 

The  woods  were  in  their  winter  sleep. 

Rocked  in  that  repose  divine 

On  the  wind-swept  Apennine  ; 

And  dreaming,  some  of  autumn  past. 

And  some  of  spring  approaching  fast. 

And  some  of  April  buds  and  showers. 

And  some  of  songs  in  July  bowers, 

And  all  of  love;  and  so  this  tree, — 

O  that  such  our  death  may  be ! — 

Died  in  sleep,  and  felt  no  pain. 

To  live  in  happier  form  again : 

From  which,  beneath  Heaven's  fairest  star. 

The  artist  wrought  this  loved  Guitar, 

And  taught  it  justly  to  reply, 

To  all  who  question  skilfully. 


In  language  gentle  as  thine  own; 
Whispering  in  enamoured  tone 
Sweet  oracles  of  woods  and  dells, 
And  summer  winds  in  sylvan  cells; 
For  it  had  learnt  all  harmonies 
Of  the  ])lains  and  of  the  skies, 
Of  the  forests  and  the  mountains, 
And  the  many-voiced  fountains; 
The  clearest  echoes  of  the  hills. 
The  softest  notes  of  falling  rills. 
The  melodies  of  birds  and  bees, 
The  murmuring  of  sununer  seas, 
And  pattering  rain,  and  breathing  dew. 
And  airs  of  evening;  and  it  knew 
That  seldom-heard  mysterious  sound, 
Wiiich,  driven  on  its  diurnal  round. 
As  it  floats  through  boundless  day. 
Our  world  enkindles  on  its  way — 
All  this  it  knows,  but  will  not  tell 
To  those  who  cannot  question  well 
The  spirit  that  inhabits  it ; 
It  talks  according  to  the  wit 
Of  its  companions ;  and  no  more 
Is  heard  than  has  been  felt  before. 
By  those  who  tempt  it  to  betray 
These  secrets  of  an  elder  day. 
But,  sweetly  as  its  answers  will 
Flatter  hands  of  perfect  skill. 
It  keeps  its  highest,  holiest  tone 
For  our  beloved  friend  alone. 


THE  MAGNETIC  LADY  TO  HER 
PATIENT. 

"Slekp,  sleep  on  !  forget  thy  pain; 

My  hand  is  on  thy  brow, 
My  spirit  on  thy  brain ; 
My  pity  on  thy  heart,  poor  friend ; 

And  from  my  fingers  flow 
The  powers  of  life,  and  like  a  sign. 

Seal  thee  from  thine  hour  of  wo ; 
And  brood  on  thee,  but  may  not  blend 
With  thine. 

"  Sleep,  sleep  on  !  I  love  thee  not; 

But  when  I  think  that  he 
Who  made  and  makes  my  lot 
As  full  of  flowers,  as  thine  of  weeds. 

Might  have  been  lost  like  thee ; 
And  that  a  hand  which  was  not  mine 

Might  then  have  chased  his  agony 
As  I  another's- — my  heart  bleeds 
For  thine. 

"  Sleep,  sleep,  and  with  the  slumber  of 

The  dead  and  the  unborn 
Forget  thy  life  and  love ; 
Forget  that  thou  must  wake  for  ever ; 

Forget  the  world's  dull  scorn ; 
Forget  lost  health,  and  the  divine 

Feelings  which  died  in  youth's  brief  morn  ; 
And  forget  me,  for  I  can  never 
Be  thine. 


332 


POEMS    WRITTEN    IN    1822. 


«  Like  a  cloud  big  with  a  Miiy  shower, 
My  soul  weeps  healinsj  rain 

On  thee,  thou  withered  flower, 

It  breathes  nuitc  music  on  thy  sleep, 
Its  odour  calms  tliy  brain  ! 

Its  light  within  thy  tiloomy  breast 
Spreads  like  a  second  youth  again 

By  mine  thy  being  is  to  its  deep 
Posscst. 


"The  spell  is  done.     How  feel  you  now?" 

«  Better — Quite  well,"  replied 
The  sleeper, — "  What  would  do 
You  good  when  suflering  and  awake  1 

What  cure  your  head  and  side  1 — " 
"  'Twould  kill  me  what  would  cure  my  pain ; 

And  as  I  must  on  earth  abide 
Awhile,  yet  tempt  mc  not  to  break 
My  chaui." 


FRAGMENTS  OF  AN  UNFINISHED  DRAMA. 


The  following  fragments  are  part  of  a  Drama, 
undertaken  for  the  amusement  of  the  individuals 
who  composed  our  intimate  society,  but  left  un- 
finished. I  have  preserved  a  sketch  of  the  story 
as  far  as  it  had  been  shadowed  in  the  poet's  mind. 

An  Enchantress,  living  in  one  of  the  islands  of 
the  Indian  Archipelago,  saves  the  life  of  a  Pirate, 
a  man  of  savage  but  noble  nature.     She  becomes 


enamoured  of  him  ;  and  he,  inconstant  to  his  mortal 
love,  for  awhile  returns  her  passion  ;  but  at  length, 
recalling  the  memory  of  her  whom  he  left,  and 
who  laments  his  loss,  he  escapes  from  the  en- 
chanted island  and  returns  to  his  ladj'.  His  mode 
of  life  makes  him  again  go  to  sea,  and  the  Enchan- 
tress seizes  the  opportunity  to  bring  him,  by  a  spuit- 
brewed  tempest,  back  to  her  island. 


Scene,  before  the  Cavern  of  the  Indian  Enchantress. 
The  Enchantress  comes  forth. 

EXCHAXTTIESS. 

He  came  like  a  dream  in  the  dawn  of  life. 

He  fled  like  a  shadow  before  its  noon  ; 
He  is  gone,  and  my  peace  is  turned  to  strife, 
And  I  wander  and  wane  like  the  weary  moon. 
O  sweet  Echo,  wake, 
And  for  m\'  sake 
Make  answer  the  while  my  heart  shall  break! 

But  my  heart  has  a  music  which  Echo's  lips. 

Though  tender  and  true,  yet  can  answer  not. 

And  the  shadow  that  moves  in  the  soul's  eclipse 

Can  return  not  the  kiss  by  his  now  forgot ; 

Sweet  lips !   he  who  hath 

On  my  desolate  path 

Cast  the  darkness  of  absence,  worse  than  death  ! 

The  Enchantress  viakes  her  spell :  she  is  answered  by  a 
Spirit. 

spiniT. 
Within  the  silent  centre  of  the  earth 
My  mansion  is ;  where  I  have  lived  insphcrcd 
From  the  beginning,  and  around  my  sleep 
Have  woven  all  the  wondrous  imagery 
Of  this  dim  spot,  which  mortals  call  the  world; 
Infinite  depths  of  unknown  elements 
Massed  into  one  impenetrable  mask ; 
Sheets  of  immeasurable  fire,  and  veins 
Of  gold,  and  stone,  and  adamantine  iron. 
And  as  a  veil  in  which  I  walk  through  Heaven 
I  have  wrought  mountains,  seas,  waves,  and  clouds. 
And  lastl}^  light,  whose  interfusion  dawns 
In  the  dark  space  of  interstellar  air. 

A  good  Spirit,  who  watches  over  the  Pirate's  fate, 
leads,  in  a  mysterious  manner,  the  lady  of  his  love  to 


the  Enchanted  Isle.  She  is  accompanied  by  a  yoiuh, 
who  loves  her,  but  whose  passion  she  returns  only  with 
a  sisterly  affection.  The  ensuing  scene  takes  place 
between  them  on  their  arrival  at  the  Isle. 

INDIAN   YOUTH    AND    LADY. 


And  if  my  grief  should  still  be  dearer  to  me 
Than  all  the  pleasures  in  the  world  beside, 
Why  would  you  Ughten  it  1 — 

LADY. 

I  oflTer  only 
That  which  I  seek,  some  human  sympathy 
In  tliis  mysterious  island. 

ISDIAX. 

Oh  !  my  fi-iend, 

My  sister,  my  beloved  !     What  do  I  say  1 
My  brain  is  dizzy,  and  I  scarce  know  whether 
I  speak  to  thee  or  her. 

LADY. 

Peace,  perturbed  heart! 
I  am  to  thee  only  as  thou  to  mine, 
The  passing  wind  which  heals  the  brow  at  noon, 
And  may  strike  cold  into  the  breast  at  night, 
Yet  cannot  linger  where  it  soothes  the  most, 
Or  long  soothe  could  it  linger. 


You  also  loved  ? 


But  you  said 


LAnY. 
Loved  !  Oh,  I  love.     Methinks 
This  word  of  love  is  fit  for  all  the  world. 
And  that  for  gentle  hearts  another  name       [owns 
Would  speak  of  gentler  thoughts  than  the  world 
I  have  loved. 


MISCELLANE  OUS. 


333 


INHIAX. 

And  thou  lovest  not  1     If  so 
Young  as  thou  art,  tliou  canst  allord  to  weep. 

LADT. 

Oh  !  would  that  I  could  claim  exemption 
From  all  the  bitterness  of  that  sweet  name. 
I  loved,  I  love,  and  when  I  love  no  more 
Let  joys  and  grief  perish,  and  leave  despair 
To  ring  the  knell  of  youth.     He  stood  beside  mc, 
The  embodied  vision  of  the  brightest  dream, 
Which  like  a  dawn  heralds  the  day  of  life ; 
The  shadow  of  his  presence  made  my  world 
A  paradise.     All  familiar  things  he  touched, 
All  common  words  he  spoke,  became  to  me 
Like  forms  and  sounds  of  a  diviner  world. 
He  was  as  is  the  sun  in  his  fierce  youth. 
As  terrible  and  lovely  as  a  tempest ; 
He  came,  and  went,  and  left,  mc  what  I  am. 
Alas !     Why  must  I  think  how  oft  we  two 
Have  sat  together  near  the  river  springs, 
Under  the  green  pavilion  which  the  willow 
Spreads  on  the  floor  of  the  unbroken  fountain, 
Strewn  by  the  nurslings  that  linger  there, 
Over  that  islet  paved  with  flowers  and  moss. 
While  the  musk-rose  leaves,  like  flakes  of  crimson 

snow, 
Showered  on  us,  and  the  dove  mourned  in  the  pine, 
Sad  prophetess  of  soitows  not  her  own. 

INDIAX. 

Your  breath  is  like  soft  music,  your  words  are 
The  echoes  of  a  voice  which  on  my  heart 


Sleeps  hke  a  melody  of  early  days. 
But  as  you  said — 

LADY. 

He  was  so  awful,  yet 
So  beautiful  in  mystery  and  terror, 
Calming  me  as  the  loveliness  of  heaven 
Soothes  the  unquiet  sea: — and  yet  not  so. 
For  he  seemed  stormy,  and  would  often  seem 
A  quenchless  sun  masked  in  portentous  clouds ; 
For  such  his  thoughts,  and  even  his  actions  were ; 
But  he  was  not  of  them,  nor  they  of  him. 
But  as  they  hid  his  splendour  from  the  earth. 
Some  said  he  was  a  man  of  blood  and  peril, 
And  steeped  in  bitter  infamy  to  the  lips. 
More  need  was  there  I  should  be  innocent. 
More  need  that  I  should  be  most  true  and  kind, 
And  much  more  need  that  there  should  be  found  one 
To  share  remorse,  and  scorn,  and  solitude, 
And  all  the  ills  that  wait  on  those  who  do 
The  tasks  of  ruin  in  the  world  of  life. 
He  fled,  and  I  have  followed  him. 

IXDIAX. 

Such  a  one 
Is  he  who  was  the  winter  of  my  peace. 
But,  fairest  stranger,  when  didst  thou  depart 
From  the  far  hills,  where  rise  the  springs  of  India, 
How  didst  thou  pass  the  intervening  sea  1 

lADT. 

If  I  be  sure  I  am  not  dreaming  now, 

I  should  not  doubt  to  say  it  was  a  dream. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


TO 


The  keen  stars  were  twinkling, 
And  the  fair  moon  was  rising  among  them. 
Dear  *  *  *  ! 
The  guitar  was  tinkling. 
But  the  notes  were  not  sweet  till  you  sung  them 
Again. 
As  the  moon's  soft  splendour 
O'er  the  faint  cold  starlight  of  heaven 
Is  thrown. 
So  your  voice  most  tender 
To  the  strings  without  soul  had  then  given 
Its  own. 

The  stars  will  awaken. 
Though  the  moon  sleep  a  full  hour  later. 
To-night; 
No  leaf  will  be  shaken 
Whilst  the  dews  of  your  melody  scatter 
Delight. 
Though  the  sound  overpowers. 
Sing  again,  with  your  dear  voice  revealing 
A  tone 
Of  some  world  far  from  ours, 
Where  music  and  moouhght  and  feeling 
Arc  one. 


THE  INVITATION. 

Best  and  brightest,  come  away, 
Fairer  far  than  this  fair  day. 
Which  like  thee  to  those  in  sorrow 
Comes  to  bid  a  sweet  good-morrow 
To  the  rough  year  just  awake 
In  its  cradle  on  the  brake. 
The  brightest  hour  of  unborn  spring. 
Through  the  winter  wandering. 
Found  it  seems  the  halcyon  morn, 
To  hoar  Februaiy  born  ; 
Bending  from  Heaven,  in  azure  mirth, 
It  kissed  the  forehead  of  the  earth. 
And  smiled  upon  the  silent  sea. 
And  bade  the  frozen  streams  be  free; 
And  waked  to  music  all  their  fountains, 
And  breathed  upon  the  frozen  mountains 
And  like  a  prophetess  of  May, 
Strewed  flowers  upon  the  barren  way. 
Making  the  wintry  world  appear 
Like  one  on  whom  thou  smilest,  dear. 

Away,  away,  from  men  and  towns. 
To  the  wild  wood  and  the  downs — 
To  the  silent  wilderness 
Where  the  soul  need  not  repress 


334 


POEMS    WRITTEN    IN     1822. 


Its  music,  lest  it  should  not  find 

An  echo  in  another's  mind, 

While  the  touch  of  Nature's  art 

Harmonizes  heart  to  heart. 

I  leave  this  notice  on  my  door 

For  each  accustomed  vi.-;iter: — 

"I  am  gone  into  the  fields 

To  take  what  this  sweet  hour  yields; — 

Reflection,  you  may  come  to-morrow, 

Sit  by  the  fireside  of  Sorrow. — 

You  with  the  unpaid  bill,  Despair, 

You,  tiresome  verse-reciter,  Care, 

I  will  pay  you  in  the  grave. 

Death  will  listen  to  your  stave. 

Expectation  too,  be  off! 

To-day  is  for  itself  enough  ; 

Hope  in  pity  mock  not  wo 

With  smiles,  nor  follow  where  I  go ; 

Long  having  lived  on  thy  sweet  food, 

At  length  I  find  one  moment  good 

After  long  pain — with  all  your  love, 

This  you  never  told  me  of." 

Radiant  Sister  of  the  Day, 
Awake  !  arise !  and  come  away  ! 
To  the  wild  woods  and  the  plains. 
To  the  pools  where  winter  rains 
Image  all  their  roof  of  leaves. 
Where  the  pine  its  garland  weaves 
Of  sapless  green,  and  ivy  dun, 
Round  stems  that  never  kiss  the  sun. 
Where  the  lawns  and  pastures  be 
And  the  sandhills  of  the  sea. 
Where  the  melting  hoarfrost  wets 
The  daisy-star  that  never  sets. 
And  wind-flowers  and  violets, 
Which  yet  join  not  scent  to  hue, 
Crown  the  pale  year  weak  and  new; 
W^hen  the  night  is  left  behind 
In  the  deep  east  dim  and  blind. 
And  the  blue  noon  is  over  us. 
And  the  multitudinous 
Billows  murmur  at  our  feet. 
Where  the  earth  and  ocean  meet, 
And  all  things  seem  only  one, 
In  the  universal  sun. 


THE  RECOLLECTION. 

Now  the  last  day  of  many  days, 
All  beautiful  and  bright  as  thou. 
The  loveliest  and  the  la»t,  is  dead. 
Rise,  ]\Iemory,  and  WTite  its  praise  ! 
Up  to  thy  wonted  work !  come,  trace 
Tiie  epitaph  of  glory  dead. 
For  now  the  Earth  has  changed  its  face, 
A  frown  is  on  the  Heaven's  brow. 


We  wandered  to  the  pine  Forest 
That  skirts  the  Ocean  foam. 

The  lightest  wind  was  in  its  nest. 
The  tempest  in  its  home. 


The  whispering  waves  were  half  asleep, 

The  clouds  were  gone  to  play. 
And  on  the  bosom  of  the  deep. 

The  smile  of  Heaven  lay  ; 
It  seemed  as  if  the  hour  were  one 

Sent  from  beyond  the  skies, 
W^hich  scattered  from  above  the  sun 

A  hght  of  Paradise. 

u. 

We  paused  amid  the  pines  that  stood 

The  giants  of  the  waste. 
Tortured  by  storms  to  shapes  as  rude 

As  serpents  interlaced. 
And  soothed  by  every  azure  breath. 

That  under  heaven  is  blown. 
To  harmonies  and  hues  beneath. 

As  tender  as  its  own  ; 
Now  all  the  tree  tops  lay  asleep, 

Like  green  waves  on  the  sea. 
As  still  as  in  the  silent  deep 

The  ocean  woods  may  be. 


How  calm  it  was ! — the  silence  there 

By  such  a  chain  was  bound, 
That  even  the  busy  woodpecker 

Made  stiller  by  her  sound 
The  inviolable  quietness ; 

The  breath  of  peace  we  drew 
With  its  soft  motion  made  not  less 

The  calm  that  round  us  grew. 
There  seemed  from  the  remotest  seat 

Of  the  wide  mountain  waste, 
To  the  soft  flower  beneath  our  feet, 

A  magic  circle  traced, 
A  spirit  interfused  around 

A  thrilling  silent  life. 
To  momentar}-  peace  it  bound 

Our  mortal  nature's  strife  ; — • 
And  still  I  felt  the  centre  of 

The  magic  circle  there, 
Was  one  fair  form  that  filled  with  love 

The  lifeless  atmosphere. 

IT. 

We  paused  beside  the  pools  that  lie 

Under  the  forest  bough. 
Each  seemed  as  'twere  a  little  sky 

Gulfed  in  a  world  below  ; 
A  firmament  of  purple  light. 

Which  in  the  dark  earth  lay, 
More  boundless  than  the  depth  of  night. 

And  purer  than  the  day — 
In  whicli  the  lovely  forests  grew. 

As  in  the  upper  air. 
More  perfect  both  in  shape  and  hue 

Than  any  spreading  there. 
There  lay  the  glade  and  neighbouring  lawn 

And  through  the  dark  green  wood 
The  white  sun  twinkling  like  the  dawn 

Out  of  a  speckled  cloud. 
Sweet  views  which  in  our  world  above 

Can  never  well  be  seen, 
Were  imaged  by  the  water's  love 

Of  that  fair  forest  green. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


335 


And  all  was  interfused  beneath 

With  an  Elysian  glow 
An  atniosj.hore  without  a  breath, 

A  softer  day  below. 
Like  one  l>elovcd  the  scene  had  lent 

To  the  dark  water's  breast, 
Its  every  leaf  and  lineament 

With  more  than  truth  exprest, 
Until  an  envious  wind  crept  by, 

Like  an  unwelcome  thought, 
Wliich  from  the  mind's  too  faithful  e3'e 

Blots  one  dear  image  out. 
Though  thou  art  ever  fair  and  kind, 

The  forests  ever  green. 
Less  oft  is  peace  in  8 's  mind. 

Than  calm  in  waters  seen. 
Fchrmiry  2,  182'2. 


A  SONG. 

A  wipow  bird  sate  mourning  for  her  love 

Upon  a  wintry  bough  ; 
The  frozen  wind  crept  on  above, 

The  freezing  stream  below. 

There  was  no  leaf  upon  the  forest  bare, 
No  flower  upon  the  ground, 

And  little  motion  in  the  air 

Except  the  mill-wheel's  sound. 


LINES. 

WiiEX  the  lamp  is  shattered, 
The  light  in  the  dust  lies  dead — 

When  the  cloud  is  scattered, 
The  rainbow's  glory  is  shed. 

When  the  lute  is  broken. 
Sweet  tones  are  remembered  not ; 

When  the  lips  have  spoken, 
Loved  accents  are  soon  forgot. 


As  music  and  splendour 
Survive  not  the  lamj)  and  the  lute. 

The  heart's  echoes  render 
No  song  when  the  spirit  is  mute : — 

No  song  but  sad  dirges, 
Like  the  wind  through  a  ruined  cell. 

Or  the  mournful  surges 
That  ring  the  dead  seaman's  knell. 

WHien  hearts  have  once  mingled. 
Love  first  leaves  the  well-built  nest; 

The  weak  one  is  singled 
To  endure  what  it  once  possest. 

O,  Love  !  who  bewailest 
The  frailty  of  all  things  here, 

Why  choose  you  the  frailest 
For  your  cradle,  your  home,  and  your  bierl 

Its  passions  will  rock  thee. 
As  the  storms  rock  the  ravens  on  high  : 

Bright  reason  will  mock  thee. 
Like  the  sun  from  a  wintry  sky. 

From  thy  nest  every  rafter 
Win  rot,  and  thine  eagle  home 

Leave  thee  naked  to  laughter, 
When  leaves  fell  and  cold  winds  come. 


THE  ISLE. 

There  vv'as  a  little  lawny  islet 
By  anemone  and  violet, 

Like  mosaic,  paven : 
And  its  roof  was  flowers  and  leaves 
Which  the  summer's  breath  enweaves. 
Where  nor  sun  nor  showers  nor  breeze 
Pierce  the  pines  and  tallest  trees. 

Each  a  gem  engraven. 
Girt  by  many  an  azure  wave 
With  which  the  clouds  and  mountains  pave 

A  lake's  blue  chasm. 


336 


POEMS    WRITTEN    IN     18  2  2. 


CHARLES    THE    FIRST. 


01  iragmcnt. 


ACT  I. 


SCENE  I. 

The  Pageant  to  celebrate  the  arrival  of  the  Queen. 

X    PUHSriTANT. 

PiACE  for  the  Marshal  of  the  Masque ! 

FIRST    SPEAKER. 

What  thinkest  thou  of  this  quaint  masque,  which 

turns 
Like  morning  from  the  shadow  of  the  night, 
The  night  to  day,  and  London  to  a  place 
Of  peace  and  joj'  1 

SECOJTD    SPEAKER. 

And  Hell  to  Heaven. 
Eight  years  are  gone, 

And  they  seem  hours,  since  in  this  populous  street 
I  trod  on  grass  made  green  by  summer's  rain. 
For  the  red  plague  kept  state  within  that  palace 
Where  now  reigns  vanity — in  nine  years  more 
The  roots  will  be  refreshed  with  civil  blood ; 
And  thank  the  mercy  of  insulted  Heaven 
That  sin  and  wrongs  wou"nd  as  an  orphan's  cry. 
The  patience  of  the  great  Avenger's  ear. 

THIRD    SPEAKER    (ff  yOUtk.) 

Yet,  father,  'tis  a  happy  sight  to  see. 

Beautiful,  innocent,  and  unforbidden 

By  God  or  man ; — 'tis  like  the  bright  procession 

Of  skiey  visions  in  a  solemn  dream 

From  which  men  wake  as  from  a  paradise, 

And  draw  new  strength  to  tread  the  thorns  of  life. 

If  God  be  good,  «vhercfore  should  this  be  evil  ? 

And  if  this  be  not  c\il,  dost  thou  not  draw 

Unseasonable  poison  from  tlic  flowers 

Which  bloom  so  rarely  in  this  barren  world  1 

Oh,  kill   these   bitter    thoughts  which  make  the 

present 
Dark  as  the  future ! — 

When  avarice  and  tyranny,  vigilant  fear, 
And  open-eyed  conspiracy,  lie  sleeping 
As  on  Hell's  threshold  ;  and  all  gentle  thoughts 
Waken  to  worship  him  who  giveth  joys 
With  his  own  gift. 

SECOXD    SPEAKER. 

How  young  art  thou  in  this  old  age  of  time ! 
How  green  in  this  gray  world !  Canst  thou  not  think 
Of  change  in  that  low  scene,  in  which  thou  art 


Not  a  spectator  but  an  actor  1 

The  day  that  dawns  in  fire  will  die  in  stonns. 

Even  though  the  noon  be  calm.  My  travel's  done ; 

Before  the  whirlwind  wakes  I  shall  have  found 

My  inn  of  lasting  rest,  but  thou  must  still 

Be  journeying  on  in  this  inclement  air. 


FIRST    SPEAKER. 


That 


Is  the  Archbishop. 


SECOIfD    SPEAKER. 

Rather  say  the  Pope. 
London  will  be  soon  his  Rome :  he  walks 
As  if  he  trod  upon  the  heads  of  men. 
He  looks  elate,  drunken  with  blood  and  gold ; — 
Beside  him  moves  the  Babylonian  woman 
Invisibly,  and  with  her  as  with  his  shadow, 
Mitred  adulterer !  he  is  joined  in  sin. 
Which  turns  Heaven's  milk  of  mercy  to  revenge. 

ANOTHER  CITIZEN  (lifting  up  Ms  ci/es.) 

Good  Lord  !  rain  it  down  upon  him. 

Amid  her  ladies  walks  the  papist  queen. 

As  if  her  nice  feet  scorned  our  English  earth. 

There's  old  Sir  Henry  Vane,  the  Earl  of  Pembroke, 

Lord  Essex,  and  Lord  Keeper  Coventry, 

And  others  who  made  base  their  English  breed 

By  vile  participation  of  their  honours 

With  papists,  atheists,  tyrants,  and  apostates. 

When  lawyers  mask  'tis  time  for  honest  men 

To  strip  the  vizor  from  their  purposes. 

****** 

FOURTH  SPEAKER  (o  pursuivajit.') 
Give  place,  give  place  ! 

You  torch-bearers,  advance  to  the  great  gate, 
And  t]\cn  attend  the  Marshal  of  the  Masque 
Into  the  Royal  presence. 

FIFTH    SPEAKER    (fl  luW  Stlldent.) 

What  thinkest  thou 
Of  this  quaint  show  of  ours,  my  aged  friend  1 

FIRST    SPEAKER. 

I  will  not  think  but  that  our  country's  wounds 
May  yet  be  healed — The  king  is  just  and  gracious, 
Though  wicked  counsels  now  pervert  his  will  : 
These  once  cast  off — 


CHARLES    THE    FIRST. 


337 


SECOND    SPEAKER. 

As  adders  cast  their  skins 
And  keep  their  venom,  so  kings  often  change  ; 
Councils  and  councillors  hang  on  one  another, 
Hiding  the  loathsome  [  ] 

Like  the  base  patchwork  of  a  leper's  rags. 

THIRD    SPEAKER. 

Oh,  still  those  dissonant  thoughts — List,  loud  music 
Grows  on  the  enchanted  air !   And  see,  the  torches 
Restlessly  flashing,  hnd  the  crowd  divided 
Like  waves  before  an  admiral's  prow. 


ANOTHER   SPEAKER. 


To  the  Marshal  of  the  Masque ! 


Give  place 


THIRD    SPEAKER. 


How  glorious !    See  those  thronging  chariots 
Rolling  like  painted  clouds  before  the  wind : 

Some  are 
Like  curved  shells  dyed  by  the  azure  depths 
Of  Indian  seas ;  some  like  the  new-born  moon ; 
And  some  like  cars  in  v^'hich  the  Romans  climbed 
(Canopied  by  Victory's  eagle-wings  outspread) 
The  Capitolian — See  how  gloriously 
The  mettled  horses  in  the  torchlight  stir 
Their  gallant  riders,  while  they  check  their  pride 
Like  shapes  of  some  diviner  element ! 

SECOND    SPEAKER. 

Ay,  there  they  are — 
Nobles,  and  sons  of  nobles,  patentees, 
Monopolists,  and  stewards  of  this  poor  farm, 
On  whose  lean  sheep  sit  the  prophetic  crows. 
Here  is  the  pomp  that  strips  the  houseless  orphan, 
Here  is  the  pride  that  breaks  the  desolate  heaj-t. 
These  are  the  lilies  glorious  as  Solomon, 
Who  toil  not,  neither  do  they  spin, — unless 
It  be  the  webs  they  catch  poor  rogues  withal. 
Here  is  the  surfeit  which  to  them  who  earn 
The  niggard  wages  of  the  earth,  scarce  leaves 
The  tithe  that  will  support  them  till  they  crawl 
Back  to  its  cold  hard  bosom.     Here  is  health 
Followed  by  grim  disease,  glory  by  shame. 
Waste  by  lame  famine,  wealth  by  squalid  want, 
And  England's  sin  by  England's  punishment. 
And,  as  the  effect  pursues  the  cause  foregone, 
Lo,  gi\'ing  substance  to  my  words,  behold 
At  once  the  sign  and  the  thing  signified — 
A  troop  of  cripples,  beggars,  and  lean  outcasts, 
Horsed  upon  stumbling  shapes,  carted  with  dung, 
Dragged  for  a  day  from  cellars  and  low  cabins, 
And  rotten  hiding-holes,  to  point  the  moral 
Of  this  presentiment,  and  bring  up  the  rear 
Of  painted  pomp  with  miserj- ! 

SPEAKER. 

'Tis  but 
The  anti-masque,  and  serves  as  discords  do 
In  sweetest  music.     Who  would  love  May  flowers 
If  they  succeeded  not  to  Winter's  flaw ; 


Or  day  unchanged  by  night;  or  joy  itself 
Without  the  touch  of  sorrow  1 


SCENE  n. 

.5  Cliamler  in  IVIiitehall. 
Enttr  the  Ki.no,  Queen,  Laud,  Westworth,  and 

AUCHV. 


Thanks,  gentlemen.     I  heartily  accept 

This  token  of  your  service  :  your  gay  masque 

Was  performed  gallantly. 


And,  gentlemen, 
Call  your  poor  Queen  your  debtor.     Your  quaint 

pageant 
Rose  on  nie  like  the  figures  of  past  years, 
Treading  their  still  path  back  to  infancy. 
More  beautiful  and  mild  as  they  draw  nearer 
The  quiet  cradle.     I  could  have  almost  wept 
To  thiidv  I  was  in  Paris,  where  these  shows 
Are  well  devised — 'Such  as  I  was  ere  yet 
My  young  heart  shared  with  [  ]  the  task, 

The  careful  weight  of  this  great  monarchy. 
There,  gentlemen,  between  the  sovereign's  pleasure 
And  that  which  it  regards,  no  clamour  lifts 
Its  proud  interposition. 


KING. 

My  lord  of  Canterbury. 

AHCHT. 

The  fool  is  here. 

lAUD. 

I  crave  permission  of  your  Majesty    ■ 
To  order  that  this  insolent  fellow  be 
Chastised  :  he  mocks  the  sacred  character, 
Scoff's  at  the  stake,  and — 

KING. 

What,  my  Archy ! 
He  mocks  and  mimics  all  he  sees  and  hears, 
Yet  with  a  quaint  and  graceful  license — Prithee 
For  this  once  do  not  as  Prynne  would,  were  he 
Primate  of  England. 

He  hves  in  his  own  world ;  and,  like  a  parrot, 
Hung  in  his  gilded  prison  from  the  window 
Of  a  queen's  bower  over  the  public  way. 
Blasphemes  with  a  bird's  mind : — his  words,  like 

arrows 
Which  know  no  aim  beyond  the  archer's  wit. 
Strike  sometimes  what  eludes  philosophy. 

aUEEN. 

Go,  sirrah,  and  repent  of  your  offence 

Ten  minutes  in  the  rain  :  be  it  your  penance 

To  bring  news  how  the  world  goes   there.     Poor 

Archy  ! 
He  weaves  about  himself  a  world  of  mirth 
Out  of  this  wreck  of  ours. 
2F 


33S 


POEMS    WRITTEN    K\    1822. 


LAUD. 

I  take  with  patience  as  my  Master  did, 
All  scofl's  permitted  from  above. 

KING. 

My  Lord, 
Pray  overlook  these  papers.  Arcliy's  words 
Had  wings,  but  these  have  talons. 

And  the  lion 
That  wears  them  must  be  tamed.  My  dearest  lord, 
I  sec  tlie  new-born  courage  in  your  eye 
Armed  to  strike  dead  the  spirit  of  the  time. 
*  »  »  *  *  »         # 

Do  thou  persist :  for,  faint  but  in  resolve. 
And  it  were  better  thou  hadst  still  remained 
The  slave  of  thine  own  slaves,  who  tear  like  curs 
The  fuiritive,  and  flee  from  the  pursuer; 
And  Opportunity,  that  empty  wolf, 
Flics  at  his  throat  who  fulls.     Subdue  thy  actions 
Even  to  the  disposition  of  thy  purpose, 
And  be  that  tempered  as  the  Ebro's  steel ; 
And  banish  weak-eyed  Mercy  to  the  weak, 
Whence  she  will  greet  thee  with  a  gift  of  peace. 
And  not  betray  thee  with  a  traitor's  kiss, 
As  when  she  keeps  the  company  of  rebels. 
Who  think  that  she  is  fear.     This  do,  lest  we 
Should  fall  as  from  a  glorious  pinnacle 
In  a  bright  dream,  and  wake  as  from  a  dream 
Out  of  our  worshipped  state. 


*  *  *         And  if  this  suffice  not, 

Unleash  the  sword  and  fire,  that  in  their  thirst 

They  may  lick  up  that  scum  of  schismatics. 

I  laugh  at  those  weak  rebels  who,  desiring 

What  we  possess,  still  prate  of  christian  peace. 

As  if  those  dreadful  messengers  of  wrath. 

Which  play  the  part  of  God  'twixt  right  and  wrong. 

Should  be  let  loose  against  iimocent  sleep 

Of  templed  cities  and  the  smiling  fields, 

For  some  poor  argument  of  policy 

Which  touches  our  own  profit  or  our  pride, 

Where  indeed  it  were  christian  charity 

To  turn  the  cheek  even  to  the  smiter's  hand  : 

And  when  our  great  Redeemer,  when  our  God 

Is  scorned  in  his  immediate  ministers. 

They  talk  of  peace  ! 

Such  peace  as  Canaan  found,  let  Scotland  now. 


at'F.EX. 
My  beloved  lord, 

Have  you  not  noted  that  the  fool  of  late 
Has  lost  his  careless  mirth,  and  that  his  words 
Sound  like  the  echoes  of  her  saddest  fears  1 
What  can  it  mean  ]   I  should  be  loth  to  think 
Some  factious  slave  had  tutored  him. 


It  partly  is, 
That  our  minds  piece  the  vacant  intervals 


Of  his  wild  words  with  their  own  fashioning ; 

As  in  the  imagery  of  summer  clouds. 

Or  coals  in  the  winter  lire,  idlers  find 

The  perfect  shadows  of  their  teeming  thoughts. 

And  partly,  that  the  terrors  of  the  time 

Are  sown  by  wandering  Rumour  in  all  spirits ; 

And  in  the  lightest  and  the  least,  may  best 

Be  seen  the  current  of  the  coming  whid. 

Your    brain    is    overwrought    with    these    deep 

thoughts. 
Come,  I  will  sing  to  you  ;  let  us  go  try 
These  airs  from  Italy, — and  you  siiall  see 
A  cradled  miniature  of  yourself  asleep, 
Stamped  on  the  heart  by  never-erring  love 
Liker  than  any  Vandyke  ever  made, 
A  pattern  to  the  iniborn  age  of  thee. 
Over  whose  sweet  beauty  I  have  wept  for  joy 
A  thousand  times,  and  now  should  weep  for  sorrow. 
Did  I  not  think  that  after  we  were  dead 
Our  fortunes  would  spring  higli  in  him,  and  that 
The  cares  we  waste  upon  our  heavy  crown 
Would  make  it  light  and  glorious  as  a  wreath 
Of  heaven's  beams  for  his  dear  innocent  brow. 


Dear  Henrietta ! 


SCENE  III. 
Hampden,  Pym,  Cromwell,  and  the  younger  Vane. 

HAMPDEX. 

England,  farewell !  thou,  who  hast  been  my  cradle, 

Shalt  never  be  my  dungeon  or  my  grave  ! 

I  held  what  I  inherited  in  thee 

As  pawn  for  that  inheritance  of  freedom 

Wluch  thou  hast  sold  for  thy  despoiler's  smile : — 

How  can  I  call  thee  England,  or  my  country  1 

Does  the  wind  hold  ] 


The  vanes  sit  steady 
Upon  the  Abbey-towers.     The  silver  lightnings 
Of  the  evening  star,  spite  of  the  city's  smoke. 
Tell  that  the  north  wind  reigns  in  the  upper  air. 
Mark  too  that  flock  of  fleecy-winged  clouds 
Sailing  athwart  St.  Margaret's. 

UAMPDEX. 

Hail,  fleet  herald 
Of  tempest!  that  wild  pilot  who  shall  guide 
Hearts  free  as  his,  to  realms  as  {)ure  as  thee, 
lieyond  the  shot  of  tyranny  !   And  thou. 
Fair  star,  whose  beam  lies  on  the  wide  Atlantic, 
Athwart  its  zones  of  tempest  and  of  calm, 
Bright  as  the  path  to  a  beloved  home, 
O  light  us  to  the  isles  of  th'  evening  land  ! 
I>ike  floating  Edens,  cradled  in  the  glimmer 
Of  sunset,  through  the  distant  mist  of  years 
Tinged  by  departing  Hope,  they   gleam!    I;one 
regions, 


CHARLES    THE    FIRST. 


339 


Where  power's  poor  dupes  and  victims  yet  have 

never 
Propitiated  the  savage  fear  of  kings 
With  purest  blood  of  noblest  hearts ;  whose  dew 
Is  yet  unstained  with  tears  of  those  who  wake 
To  weep  each  day  the  wrongs  on  which  it  dawns ; 
Whose  sacred  silent  air  owns  yet  no  echo 
Of  formal  blasphemies ;  nor  impious  rites 
Wrest    man's    free  worship   from  the  God    who 

loves 
Towards  the  worm,  who  envies  us  his  love, 
Receive  thou,  young  [  ]  of  Paradise, 

These  exiles  from  the  old  and  sinful  world ! 
This  glorious  clime,  this  firmament,  whose  lights 
Dart  mitigated  influence  through  the  veil 
Of  palo-bluc  atmosphere  ;  whose  tears  keep  green 
The  pavement  of  this  moist  all-feeding  earth ; 


This  vaporous  horizon,  whose  dim  round 
Is  bastioned  by  the  circumfluous  sea, 
Repelling  invasion  from  the  sacred  towers  ; 
Presses  upon  me  like  a  dungeon's  grate, 
A  low  dark  roof,  a  damp  and  narrow  vault : 
The  mighty  universe  becomes  a  cell 
Too  narrow  for  the  soul  that  owns  no  master. 
While  the  loathlicst  spot 
Of  this  wide  prison,  England,  is  a  nest 
Of  cradled  peace  built  on  the  mountain  tops, 
To  which  the  eagle-spirits  of  the  free. 
Which  range  through  heaven  and  earth,  and  scorn 

the  storm 
Of  time,  and  gaze  upon  the  light  of  truth, 
Return  to  brood  over  the  [  ]  thoughts 

That  cannot  die,  and  may  not  be  repelled. 


340 


POEMS    WRITTEN    IX    18  2  2. 


THE    TRIUMPH  OF    LIFE. 


Swift  as  a  spirit  hastcninjT  to  his  task 
Of  glory  and  of  good,  the  Sun  sprang  forth 
Rejoicuig  in  his  splendour,  and  the  mask 

Of  darkness  fell  fi-om  the  awakened  Earth 
The  smokeless  altars  of  the  mountain  snows 
Flamed  ahove  crimson  clouds,  and  at  the  birth 

Of  light,  the  Ocean's  orison  arose, 

To  which  the  birds  tempered  their  matin  lay. 

All  flowers  in  field  or  forest  which  unclose 

Their  trembling  eyelids  to  the  kiss  of  day, 
Swinging  their  censers  in  the  clement. 
With  orient  incense  lit  by  the  new  ray 

Burned  slow  and  inconsumably,  and  sent 
Their  odorous  sighs  up  to  the  smiling  air ; 
And,  in  succession  due,  did  continent. 

Isle,  ocean,  and  all  things  that  in  them  wear 
The  form  and  character  of  mortal  mould. 
Rise  as  the  sun  their  father  rose,  to  bear 

Their  portion  of  the  toil,  which  he  of  old 
Took  as  his  own  and  then  imposed  on  them  : 
But  I,  whom  thoughts  wMch  must  remain  untold 

Had  kept  as  wakeful  as  the  stars  that  gem 
The  cone  of  night,  now  they  were  laid  asleep 
Stretched  my  faint  limbs  beneath  the  hoary  stem 

Which  an  old  chestnut  flung  athwart  the  steep 

Of  a  green  Apennine  :  before  me  fled 

The  night ;  behind  me  rose  the  day  ;  the  deep 

Was  at  my  feet,  and  Heaven  above  my  head, 
When  a  strange  trance  over  my  fancy  grew 
Which  was  not  slumber,  for  the  shade  it  spread 

Was  so  transparent,  that  the  scene  came  through 
As  clear  as  when  a  veil  of  light  is  drawn 
O'er  evening  hills  they  gUmmer ;  and  I  knew 

That  I  had  felt  the  freshness  of  that  dawn. 
Bathed  in  the  same  cold  dew  my  brow  and  hair. 
And  sate  as  thus  upon  that  slope  of  lawn 

Under  the  selfsame  bough,  and  heard  as  there 
Tiie  birds,  the  fountains,  and  the  ocean  hold 
Sweet  talk  in  music  through  the  enamoured  air, 
And  then  a  vision  on  my  brain  was  roiled. 


As  in  that  trance  of  wondrous  thought  I  lay, 
This  was  the  tenor  of  my  walking  dream : — 
Methought  I  sate  beside  a  public  way 

Thick  strewn  with  summer  dust,  and  a  great  stream 
Of  people  there  was  hurrying  to  and  fro, 
Numerous  as  gnats  upon  the  evening  gleam. 


All  hastening  onward,  yet  none  seemed  to  know 
Whither  he  went,  or  whence  he  came,  or  why 
He  made  one  of  the  multitude,  and  so 

Was  borne  amid  the  crowd,  as  through  the  sky 
One  of  the  million  leaves  of  summer's  bier; 
Old  age  and  youth,  manhood  and  infancy, 

Mixed  in  one  mighty  torrent  did  appear  : 

Some  flying  from  the  thing  they  feared,  and  some 

Seeking  the  object  of  another's  fear  ; 

And  others  as  with  steps  towards  the  tomb. 
Pored  on  the  trodden  worms  that  crawled  beneath, 
And  others  mournfully  witliin  the  gloom 

Of  their  own  shadow  walked  and  called  it  death; 
And  some  fled  from  it  as  it  were  a  ghost. 
Half  fainting  in  the  afiliction  of  vain  breath  : 

But  more  with  motions,  which  each  other  crost 
Pursued  or  spurned  the  shadows  the  clouds  threw. 
Or  birds  within  the  noonday  ether  lost. 

Upon  that  path  where  flowers  never  gre-w, 
And  weary  with  vain  toil  and  faint  for  thirst. 
Heard  not  the  fountains,  whose  melodious  dew 

Out  of  their  mossy  cells  for  ever  burst ; 

Nor  felt  the  breeze  which  from  the  forest  told 

Of  grassy  paths  and  wood,  lawn-interspersed. 

With  overarching  elms  and  caverns  cold, 

And  violet  banks  where  sweet  dreams  brood,  but  they 

Pursued  their  serious  folly  as  of  old. 

And  as  I  gazed,  methought  that  in  the  way 
The  throng  grew  wilder,  as  the  woods  of  June 
When  the  south  wind  shakes  the  extinguished  day, 

And  a  cold  glare  intcnscr  than  the  noon, 

But  icy  cold,  obscured  with  blinding  light 

The  sun,  as  he  the  stars.     Like  the  young  moon 

When  on  the  sunlit  limits  of  the  night, 
Her  white  shell  trembles  amid  crimson  air. 
And  whilst  the  sleeping  tempest  gathers  might 

Doth,  as  the  herald  of  its  coming,  bear 

The  ghost  of  its  dead  mother,  whose  dim  form 

Bends  in  dark  ether  firom  her  infant's  chair, — 

So  came  a  chariot  on  the  silent  storm 

Of  its  own  rushing  splendour,  and  a  Shape 

So  sate  within,  as  one  whom  years  deform, 

Beneath  a  dusky  hood  and  double  cape. 
Crouching  within  the  shadow  of  a  tomb. 
And  o'er  what  seemed  the  head  a  cloud-like  crape 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    LIFE. 


341 


Was  bent,  a  dun  and  faint  ethereal  gloom 
Tetiiperinar  the  light  upon  the  chariot  beam  ; 
A  Jauas-visaged  shadow  did  assume 

The  guidance  of  that  wonder-winged  team  ; 
The  sliapes  which  drew  it  in  thick  lightnings 
^\'ere  lost : — I  heard  alone  on  the  air's  soft  stream 

The  music  of  their  evermoving  wings. 

All  the  four  faces  of  that  cliurioteer 

Had  their  eyes  banded ;  little  prolit  brings 

Speed  in  the  vaii  and  blindness  in  the  rear, 
Nor  then  avail  the  beams  that  quench  the  sun 
Or  that  with  banded  eyes  could  pierce  the  sphere 

Of  all  that  is,  has  been,  or  will  be  done  ; 
So  ill  was  the  car  guided — but  it  past 
With  solemn  speed  majestically  on. 

The  crowd  gave  way,  and  I  arose  aghast, 
Or  seemed  to  rise,  so  mighty  was  the  trance. 
And  saw,  like  clouds  upon  the  thunder's  blast, 

The  million  with  fierce  song  and  maniac  dance 
Raging  around — such  seemed  the  jubilee 
As  when,  to  meet  some  conqueror's  advance, 

Imperial  Rome  poured  forth  her  living  sea 
From  senate-house,  and  forum,  and  theatre, 
When  r.  ]  upon  the  free 

Had  bound  a  yoke,  which  soon  they  stopped  to  bear. 
Nor  wanted  here  the  just  similitude 
Of  a  triumphal  pageant,  for  where'er 

The  chariot  rolled,  a  captive  multitude 

Was  driven ; — all  those  who  had  grown  old  in  power 

Or  misery, — all  who  had  their  age  subdued 

By  action  or  by  suffering,  and  whose  hour 
Was  drained  to  its  last  sand  in  weal  or  wo, 
So  that  the  trunk  survived  both  fruit  and  flower ; — 

All  those  wliose  fame  or  infamy  must  grow 
Till  the  great  winter  lay  the  form  and  name 
Of  this  green  earth  with  them  for  ever  low  ; — 

All  but  the  sacred  few  who  could  not  tame 
Their  spirits  to  the  conqueror's — but  as  soon 
As  they  had  touched  the  world  with  living  flame. 

Fled  back  like  eagles  to  their  native  noon, 

Or  those  who  put  aside  the  diadem 

Of  earthly  thrones  or  gems  [  ] 

Were  there  of  Athens  or  Jerusalem, 

Were  neither  'mid  the  mighty  captives  seen, 

Nor  'mid  the  ribald  crowd  that  followed  them, 

Nor  those  who  went  before  fierce  and  obscene. 
The  wild  dance  maddens  in  the  van,  and  those 
Who  lead  it — fleet  as  shadows  on  the  green, 

Outspeed  the  chariot,  and  without  repose 
Mix  with  each  other  in  tempestuous  measure 
To  savage  music,  wilder  as  it  grows, 

They,  tortured  by  their  agonizing  pleasure, 
Convulsed  and  on  the  rapid  whirlwinds  spun 
Of  that  fierce  spirit,  whose  unholy  leisure 


Was  soothed  by  mischief  since  the  world  begun, 
Throw  back  their  heads  and  loose  their  streaming 

hair ; 
And  in  their  dance  round  her  who  dims  tlic  sun. 
Maidens  and  youths  fling  their  wild  arms  in  air 
As  their  feet  twinkle; they  recede,  and  now 
Bonding  within  each  other's  atmosphere 

Kindle  invisibly — and  as  they  glow. 

Like  moths  by  light  attracted  and  repelled. 

Oft  to  (heir  bright  destruction  come  and  go. 

Till  like  two  clouds  into  one  vale  impelled 

That  shake  the  mountains  when  their  Ughtnings 

mingle 
And  die  in  rain — the  fiery  band  which  held 

Their  natures,  snaps — the  shock  still  may  tingle  : 
One  falls  and  then  another  in  the  path 
Senseless — nor  is  the  desolation  single. 

Yet  ere  I  can  say  ivliere — the  chariot  hath 
Past  over  them — nor  other  trace  I  find 
But  as  of  foam  after  the  ocean's  wrath 

Is  spent  upon  the  desert  shore  ; — behind, 
Old  men  and  women  foully  disarrayed. 
Shake  their  gray  hairs  in  the  insulting  wind. 

And  follow  in  the  dance,  with  limbs  decayed. 
Seeking  to  reach  the  light  which  leaves  them  still 
Farther  behind  and  deeper  in  the  shade. 

But  not  the  less  with  impotence  of  will 

They  wheel,  though  gjiastly  shadows  interpose 

Round  them  and  round  each  other,  and  fulfil 

Their  part,  and  in  the  dust  from  whence  they  rose 

Sink,  and  corruption  veils  them  as  they  lie. 

And  past  in  these  performs  what  [         ]  in  those. 

Struck  to  the  heart  by  this  sad  pageantry, 
Half  to  myself  I  said — And  what  is  this  1 
Whose  shape  is  that  within  the  car  1  And  why — 

I  would  have  added — is  all  here  amiss  1 — 

But  a   voice  answered — "  Life  !" — I  turned    and 

knew 
(0  Heaven,  have  mercy  on  such  wretchedness !) 

That  what  I  thought  was  an  old  root  which  grew 
To  strange  distortion  out  of  the  hill  side, 
Was  uideed  one  of  those  deluded  crew, 

And  that  the  grass,  which  methought  hung  so  wide 
And  white,  was  but  his  thin  discoloured  hair, 
And  that  the  holes  it  vainly  sought  to  hide, 

Were  or  had  been  eyes : — « If  thou  canst,  forbear 
To  join  the  dance,  which  I  had  well  forborne  !" 
Said  the  grim  Feature  of  my  thought :  «  Aware, 

"  I  will  unfold  that  which  to  this  deep  scorn 
Led  me  and  my  companions,  and  relate 
The  progress  of  the  pageant  since  the  morn ; 

"  If  thirst  of  knowledge  shall  not  then  abate, 

Follow  it  thou  even  to  the  night,  but  I 

Am  weary." — Then  like  one  who  with  the  weight 

Of  his  own  words  is  staggered,  wearily 
He  paused ;  and,  ere  he  could  resume,  I  cried, 
"  First,  who  art  thou?" — "Before  thy  memon,', 
2  F  2 


342 


POEMS    WRITTEN    IN    182  2. 


"I  feared,  loved,  hated,  suffered,  did  and  died, 
And  if  the  spark  with  which  Heaven  lit  my  spirit 
Had  been  with  purer  sentiment  supplied, 

«  Corruption  would  not  now  thus  much  inherit 
Of  what  was  once  Rousseau, — nor  this  disguise 
Stained  that  which  ought  to  have  disdauied  to 
wear  it ; 

'•  If  I  have  been  extinguished,  yet  there  rise 
A  thousand  beacons  from  the  spark  I  bore" — 
'•And  who  are  those  chained  to  the  car!" — "The 
wise, 

<•  The  great,  the  unforgotten, — they  who  wore 
Mitres  and  helms  and  crowns,  or  wreaths  of  light. 
Signs  of  thought's  empire  over  thought — their  lore 

"  Taught  them  not  this,  to  know  themselves ;  their 
Could  not  repress  the  mystery  within,  [might 

And  for  the  morn  of  truth  they  feigned,  deep  night 

"  Caught  them  ere  evening." — "  Who  is  he  with 

chin 
Upon  his  breast,  and  hands  crost  on  his  chain]" — 
"  The  Cluld  of  a  tierce  hour ;  he  sought  to  win 

<'  The  world,  and  lost  all  that  it  did  contain 
Of  greatness,  in  its  hope  destroyed ;  and  more 
Of  fame  and  peace  than  virtue's  self  can  gain 

«  Without  the  opportunity  which  bore 

Him  on  its  eagle  pinions  to  the  peak 

From  which  a  thousand  cUmbers  have  before 

«  Fallen,  as  Napoleon  fell." — I  felt  my  cheek 

Alter  to  see  the  shadow  pass  away, 

Whose  grasp  had  left  the  giant  world  so  weak, 

That  every  pigmy  kicked  it  as  it  lay ; 

And  much  I  grieved  to  think  how  power  and  will 

In  opposition  rule  our  mortal  day. 

And  why  God  made  irreconcilable 

Good  and  the  means  of  good ;  and  for  despair 

I  half  disdained  mine  eyes'  desire  to  fill 

With  the  spent  vision  of  the  times  that  were 
And  scarce  have  ceased  to  be. — «  Dost  thou  be- 
hold," 
Said  my  guide,  "  those  spoilers  spoiled,  Voltaire, 

"  Frederick,  and  Paul,  Catherine,  and  Leopold, 
And  hoary  anarchs,  demagogues,  and  sago — ■ 
names  which  the  world  thinks  always  old, 

"  For  in  the  battle  life  and  they  did  wage, 
She  remained  conqueror.  I  was  overcome 
By  my  own  heart  alone,  which  neither  age, 

«  Nor  tears,  nor  infamy,  nor  now  the  tomb 
Could  temper  to  its  object." — "  Let  them  pass," 
I  cried,  "  the  world  and  its  mysterious  doom 

« Is  not  so  much  more  glorious  than  it  was, 
That  I  desire  to  worship  those  who  drew 
New  figures  on  its  false  and  fi-agile  glass 


"  As  the  old  faded." — "  Figures  ever  new 
Rise  on  the  bubble,  paint  them  as  you  may ; 
We  have  but  thrown,  as  those  before  us  threw, 

"  Our  shadows  on  it  as  it  past  away. 

But  mark  how  chained  to  the  triumphal  chair 

The  mighty  })hantoms  of  an  elder  day  ; 

"All  that  is  mortal  of  great  Plato  there 
Expiates  the  joy  and  wo  his  master  knew  not: 
The  star  that  ruled  his  doom  was  far  too  fair, 

"And  life,  where  long   that  flower   of  Heaven 

grew  not, 
Conquered  that  heart  by  love,  which  gold,  or  pain, 
Or  age,  or  sloth,  or  slavery,  could  subdue  not. 

"  And  near  him  walk  the  [  ]  twain, 

The  tutor  and  his  pupil,  whom  Dominion 
Followed  as  tame  as  vulture  in  a  chain. 

«  The  world  was  darkened  beneath  either  pinion 
Of  him  whom  from  the  flock  of  conquerors 
Fame  singled  out  for  her  thunder-bearing  minion ; 

"  The  other  long  outlived  both  woes  and  wars, 
Throned  in  the  thoughts  of  men,  and  still  had  kept 
The  jealous  key  of  truth's  eternal  doors, 

"  If  Bacon's  eagle  spirit  had  not  leapt 

Like  lightning  out  of  darkness — he  compelled 

The  Proteus  shape  of  Nature  as  it  slept 

"  To  wake,  and  lead  him  to  the  caves  that  held 

The  treasure  of  the  secrets  of  its  reign. 

See  the  great  bards  of  elder  time,  who  quelled 

"  The  passions  which  they  sung,  as  by  their  strain 
May  well  be  known  :  their  living  melody 
Tempers  its  own  contagion  to  the  vein 

"  Of  those  who  are  infected  with  it — I 
Have  suffered  what  I  wrote,  or  viler  pain. 
And  so  my  words  have  seeds  of  misery  !"— — 


[Tlierfi  is  a  chasm  here  in  the  MS.  which  it  is  impos- 
sible to  fill  up.  It  nppears  from  the  conte.\t,  that  other 
shapes  pass,  and  that  Kousseau  still  stood  beside  tlie 
dreamer,  as] 

he  pointed  to  a  company, 

'Midst  whom  I  quickly  rccogni.sed  the  heirs 
Of  Ca;sar's  crime,  from  him  to  Constantine ;    ■ 
The  anarch   chiefs,  whose   force   and  murderous 
snares 


Had  founded  many  a  scoptre-bearing  line. 

And  spread  the  plague  of  gold  and  blood  abroad : 

And  Gregory  and  John,  and  men  divine, 

Who  rose  like  shadows  between  man  and  God ; 
Till  that  eclipse,  still  hanging  over  heaven, 
Was  worshipped  by   the  world  o'er  which  they 
strode. 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    LIFE. 


343 


For  tlie  true  sun  it  quenched — "  Their  power  was 
But  to  destroy,"  replied  the  leader: — "I  [given 
Am  one  of  those  who  have  created,  even 

If  it  be  but  a  vv'orld  of  agony." — 

"  Wlicncc  comest  thou  !  and  whither  goest  thou  ] 

How  did  thy  course  begin  ]"  I  said,  "and  why  ! 

"Mine  eyes  arc  sick  of  this  perpetual  flow 

Of  people,  and  my  heart  sick  of  one  sad  thought — 

Speak  !" — "  Whence  I  am,  I  partly  seem  to  know, 

"  And  how  and  by  what  jiaths  I  have  been  brought 
To  this  dread  pass,  methinks  even  thou  uiay'st 

guess ; — 
Why  this  should  be,  my  mind  can  compass  not ; 

"Whither  the  conqueror  hurries  me,  still  less; — • 
But  follow  thou,  and  from  spectator  turn 
Actor  or  victim  in  this  wretchedness, 

"  And  what  thou  wouldst  be  taught  I  then  may  learn 
From  thee.     Now  listen: — In  the  April  prime, 
When  all  the  forest  tips  began  to  burn 

«  With  kindling  green,  touched  by  the  azure  clime 
Of  the  young  year's  dawn,  I  was  laid  asleep 
Under  a  mountain,  which  from  unknown  time 

"  Had  yawned  into  a  cavern,  high  and  deep ; 

And  from  it  came  a  gentle  rivulet, 

Whose  water,  like  clear  air,  in  its  calm  sweep 

"  Bent  the  soft  grass,  and  kept  for  ever  wet 

The  stems   of  the   sweet  flowers,  and  filled  the 

grove 
With  sounds,  which  whoso  hears  must  needs  forget 

"  All  pleasure  and  all  pain,  all  hate  and  love. 
Which  they  had  known  before  that  hour  of  rest ; 
A  sleeping  mother  then  would  dream  not  of 

"  Her  only  child  who  died  upon  her  breast 
At  eventide — a  king  would  mourn  no  more 
The  crown  of  which  his  brows  were  dispossest 

"  When  the  sun  lingered  o'er  his  ocean  floor, 

To  gild  his  rival's  new  prosperity. 

Thou  wouldst  forget  thus  vainly  to  deplore 

"  Ills,  which  if  ills  can  find  no  cure  from  thee, 
The  thought  of  which  no  other  sleep  will  quell. 
Nor  other  music  blot  from  memorv, 

"  So  sweet  and  deep  is  the  oblivious  spell ; 
And  whether  Ufe  had  been  before  that  sleep 
The  heaven  which  I  imagine,  or  a  hell 

"  Like  this  harsh  world  in  which  I  wake  to  weep, 

I  know  not.     I  arose,  and  for  a  space 

The  scene  of  woods  and  waters  seemed  to  keep, 

"  Though  it  was  now  broad  day,  a  gentle  trace 
Of  light  diviner  than  the  common  sun 
Sheds  on  the  common  earth,  and  all  the  place 

"  Was  filled  with  magic  sounds  woven  into  one 

Oblivious  melody,  confusing  sense 

Amid  the  gliding  waves  and  shadows  dun  ; 


"  And,  as  I  looked,  the  bright  omnipresence 
Of  morning  through  the  orient  cavern  flowed, 
And  the  sun's  image  radiantly  intense 

"Burned  on  the  waters  of  the  well  that  glowed 
liike  gold,  and  threaded  all  the  forest's  maze 
With  winding  paths  of  emerald  lire;  there  stood 

"  Amid  the  sun,  as  he  amid  the  blaze 

Of  his  own  glory,  on  the  vibrating 

Floor  of  the  fountain,  paved  with  flashing  rays, 

"  A  Shape  all  light,  which  with  one  hand  did  fling 
Dew  on  the  earth,  as  if  she  were  the  dawn, 
And  the  invisible  rain  did  ever  sing 

"  A  silver  music  on  the  mossy  lawn  ; 
And  still  before  me  on  the  dusky  grass, 
Iris  her  many-coloured  scarf  had  drawn  : 

"  In  her  right  hand  she  bore  a  crystal  glass, 
Mantling  with  bright  Nepenthe ;  the  fierce  splen- 
dour 
Fell  from  her  as  she  moved  under  the  mass 

"  Out  of  the  deep  cavern,  with  palms  so  tender, 
Their  tread  broke  not  the  mirror  of  its  billow ; 
She  glided  along  the  river,  and  did  bend  her 

"  Head  under  the  dark  boughs,  till,  like  a  willow. 
Her  fair  hair  swept  the  bosom  of  the  stream 
That  whispered  with  delight  to  be  its  pillow. 

"  As  one  enamoured  is  uj)borne  in  dream 

O'er  lily-paven  lakes  'mid  silver  mist. 

To  wondrous  music,  so  this  shape  might  seem 

"  Partly  to  tread  the  waves  with  feet  which  kissed 
The  dancing  foam ;  partly  to  glide  along 
The  air  which  roughened  the  moist  amethyst, 

"  Or  the  faint  morning  beams  that  fell  among 
The  trees,  or  the  soft  shadows  of  the  trees ; 
And  her  feet,  ever  to  the  ceaseless  song 

"  Of  leaves,  and  winds,  and  waves,  and  birds,  and 

bees, 
And  fiiHing  drops  moved  to  a  measure  new. 
Yet  sweet,  as  on  the  summer  evening  breeze, 

«  Up  from  the  lake  a  shape  of  golden  dew 
Between  two  rocks,  athwart  the  rising  moon, 
Dances  i'  the  wind,  where  never  eagle  flew ; 

"  And  still  her  feet,  no  less  than  the  sweet  tune 
To  which  they  moved,  seemed  as  they  moved  to  blot 
The  thoughts  of  him  who  gazed  on  them ;  and  soon 

"All  tliat  was,  seemed  as  if  it  had  been  not; 
And  all  the  gazer's  mind  was  strewn  beneath 
Her  feet  like  embers;  and  she,  thought  by  thought, 

"  Trampled  its  sparks  into  the  dust  of  death ; 
As  day  upon  the  threshold  of  the  east 
Treads  out  the  lamps  of  night,  until  the  breath 

"  Of  darkness  reillumine  even  the  least 

Of  heaven's  living  eyes — like  day  she  came. 

Making  the  night  a  dream ;  and  ere  she  ceased 


344 


POEMS    WRITTEN    IN    1822. 


"  To  move,  as  one  between  desire  and  shame 
Si>spended,  I  said — If,  as  it  doth  seem, 
Thou  comest  from  tlie  reahn  without  a  name, 

"  Into  this  valley  of  perpetual  dream, 

Shew  whence  I  came,  and  where  I  am,  and  why — 

Pass  not  away  upon  the  passing  stream. 

« '  Arise  and  quench  thy  thirst,'  was  her  reply. 
And  as  a  shut  lily,  stricken  by  the  wand 
Of  dewy  morning's  vital  alchemy, 

"I  rose;  and,  bending  at  her  sweet  command, 
Touched  with  faint  lips  the  cup  she  raised, 
And  suddenly  my  brain  became  as  sand, 

«  Where  the  first  wave  had  more  than  half  erased 
The  track  of  deer  on  desert  Labrador  ; 
Whilst  the  wolf,  from  which  they  fled  amazed, 

"  Leaves  his  stamp  visibly  upon  the  shore. 
Until  the  second  bursts ; — so  on  my  sight 
Bursts  a  new  vision,  never  seen  before, 

"  And  the  fair  shape  waned  in  the  coming  light, 
As  veil  by  veil  the  silent  splendour  drops 
From  Lucifer,  amid  the  chrysolite 

"  Of  sumise,  ere  it  tinge  the  mountain  tops ; 
And  as  the  presence  of  that  fairest  planet. 
Although  unseen,  is  felt  by  one  vrho  hopes 

"  That  his  day's  path  may  end  as  he  began  it, 
In  that  star's  smile,  whose  light  is  hke  the  scent  . 
Of  a  jonquil  when  evening  breezes  fan  it, 

"  Or  the  soft  note  in  which  his  dear  lament 
The  Brescian  shepherd  breathes,  or  the  caress 
That  turned  his  weary  slumber  to  content  ;* 

"  So  knew  I  in  that  light's  severe  excess 

The  presence  of  that  shape  which  on  the  stream 

Moved,  as  I  moved  along  the  v^'ilderness, 

"  More  dimly  than  a  day-appearing  dream. 

The  ghost  of  a  forgotten  form  of  sleep ; 

A  hght  of  heaven,  whose  half-extinguished  beam 

"  Through  the  sick  day  in  which  we  wake  to  weep. 
Glimmers,  for  ever  sought,  for  ever  lost ; 
So  did  that  shape  its  obscure  tenor  keep 

"  Beside  my  path,  as  silent  as  a  ghost ; 
But  the  new  Vision  and  the  cold  bright  car. 
With  solemn  speed  and  stunning  music,  crost 

«  The  forest,  and  as  if  from  some  dread  war 
Triumphantly  returning,  the  loud  million 
Fiercely  extolled  the  fortune  of  her  star. 

"  A  moving  arch  of  victory,  the  vermilion 
And  green  and  azure  jilumcs  of  Iris  had 
Built  high  over  her  wind-winged  pa\ilion, 

*  The  favourite  song  "  Stanco  di  pascolar  le  pecco- 
rclle,"  is  a  Brescian  national  air. 


"  And  underneath  ethereal  glory  clad 
The  wilderness,  and  far  before  her  flew 
The  tempest  of  the  splendour,  wliich  forbade 

"  Shadow  to  fall  from  leaf  and  stone ;  the  crew 
Seemed  in  that  light,  like  atomies  to  dance 
Within  a  sunbeam ; — some  upon  the  new 

"  Embroidery  of  flowers,  that  did  enhance 
The  grassy  vesture,  of  the  desert,  played. 
Forgetful  of  the  chariot's  swift  advance ; 

"  Others  stood  gazing,  till  within  the  shade 
Of  the  great  mountain  its  light  left  them  dim; 
Others  outspeeded  it ;  and  others  made 

"  Circles  around  it,  like  the  clouds  that  swim 
Round  the  high  moon  in  a  bright  sea  of  air ; 
And  more  did  follow,  with  exulting  hymn, 

"  The  chariot  and  the  captives  fettered  there  : — 
But  all  like  bubbles  on  an  eddying  flood 
Fell  into  the  same  track  at  last,  and  were 

"  Borne  onward.     I  among  the  multitude 

Was  swept — me,  sweetest  flowers  delayed  not  long ; 

Me,  not  the  shadow  nor  the  sohtude ; 

"  Me,  not  that  falling  stream's  Lethean  song ; 
Me,  not  the  phantom  of  that  early  form. 
Which  moved  upon  its  motion — but  among 

"  The  thickest  billows  of  that  living  storm 
I  plunged,  and  bared  my  bosom  to  the  clime 
Of  that  cold  light,  whose  airs  too  soon  deform. 

<'  Before  the  chariot  had  begun  to  climb 
The  opposing  steep  of  that  mysterious  dell, 
Behold  a  wonder  worthy  of  the  rhyme 

«  Of  him  who  from  the  lowest  depths  of  hell. 
Through  every  paradise  and  through  all  glory, 
Love  led  serene,  and  who  returned  to  tell 

"  The  words  of  hate  and  care ;  the  wondrous  story 
How  all  things  are  transfigured  except  Love ; 
For  deaf  as  is  a  sea,  which  wrath  makes  hoary, 

"  The  world  can  hear  not  the  sweet  notes  that  move 
The  sphere  whose  light  is  melody  to  lovers — 
A  wonder  worthy  of  his  rhyme — the  grove 

"  Grew  dense  with  shadows  to  its  inmost  covers. 
The  earth  was  gray  with  phantoms,  and  the  air 
Was  peopled  with  dim  forms,  as  when  there  hovers 

"  A  flock  of  vampire-bats  before  the  glare 
Of  the  tropic  sun,  bringing,  ere  evening. 
Strange  night  upon  some  Indian  vale ; — thus  were 

"  Phantoms  diffused  around ;  and  some  did  fling 
Shadows  of  shadows,  yet  unlike  themselves. 
Behind  them ;  some  like  eaglets  on  the  wing 

"  Were  lost  in  the  white  day  ;  others  like  elves 
Danced  in  a  thousand  nnimagined  shapes 
Upon  the  sunny  sti-eams  and  grassy  shelves : 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    LIFE. 


345 


■'  And  others  sate  chattering  like  restless  apes 
On  vulgar  hands,  *  »  * 

Some  made  a  cradle  of  the  crniinod  capes 

"Of  kinply  mantles;  some  across  the  tire 
Of  i>ontitls  rode,  like  demons;  others  played 
Under  the  crown  which  girt  with  empire 

"  A  baby's  or  an  idiot's  brow,  and  made 

Their  nests  in  it.     The  old  anatomies 

Sate  hatching  their  bare  broods  under  the  shade 

"  Of  demon  wings,  and  laughed  from  their  dead  eyes 

To  reassume  the  delegated  power, 

Arrayed  in  which  those  worms  did  nionarchize, 

"  Who  made  this  earth  their  chamel.    Others  more 

Humble,  like  falcons,  sat  upon  the  fist 

Of  common  men,  and  round  their  heads  did  soar; 

"  Or  like  small  gnats  and  flies,  as  thick  as  mist 
On  evening  marshes,  thronged  about  the  brow 
Of  lawyers,  statesmen,  priest,  and  theorist ; — 

"  And  others,  like  discoloured  flakes  of  snow 
On  fairest  bosoms  and  the  sunniest  hair. 
Fell,  and  were  melted  by  the  youthful  glow 

"Which  they  extinguished ;  and,  like  tears,  they  were 
A  veil  to  those  fi'om  whose  faint  lids  they  rained 
In  drops  of  sorrow.     I  became  aware 

"  Of  whence  those  forms  proceeded  which  thus  stain'd 
The  track  in  which  we  moved.  After  brief  space, 
From  every  form  the  beauty  slowly  waned ; 


"  From  every  firmest  limb  and  fairest  face 

The  strength  and  freshness  fell  like  dust,  and  left 

The  action  and  the  shape  without  the  grace 

"Of  life.     The  marble  brow  of  youth  was  cleft 
With  care;  and  in  those  eyes  where  once  hope  siione, 
Desire,  like  a  lioness  bereft 

"  Of  her  last  cub,  glared  ere  it  died ;  each  one 
Of  that  great  crowd  sent  forth  incessantly 
These  shadows,  numerous  as  the  dead  leaves  blown 

"  In  autumn  evening  from  a  poplar  tree, 
Each  Uke  himself  and  like  each  other  were 
At  first ;  but  some  distorted  seemed  to  be 

"  Obscure  clouds,  moulded  by  the  casual  air ; 
And  of  tliis  stuff  the  car's  creative  ray 
Wrapt  all  the  busy  phantoms  that  were  there, 

"  As  the  sun  shapes  the  clouds ;  thus  on  the  way 
Mask  after  mask  fell  from  the  countenance 
And  form  of  all ;  and  long  before  the  day 

"  Was  old,  the  joy  which  waked  like  heaven's  glance 
The  sleepers  in  the  oblivious  valley,  died ; 
And  some  grew  weary  of  the  ghastly  dance, 

"  And  fell,  as  I  have  fallen,  by  the  wayside ; — • 
Those  soonest  from  whose  forms  most  shadows  past, 
And  least  of  strength  and  beauty  did  abide. 

«  Tlien,  what  is  life  ?  I  cried." — 


346 


FRAGMENTS. 


FRAGMENTS.* 


TO . 

Hehe,  my  dear  friend,  is  a  new  book  for  you; 

I  have  already  dedicated  two 

To  other  friends,  one  female  and  one  male, 

What  you  are,  is  a  thing  that  I  must  veil ; 

What  can  this  be  to  those  who  praise  or  raill 

I  never  was  attached  to  that  great  sect 

Whose  doctrine  is  that  each  one  should  select 

Out  of  the  world  a  mistress  or  a.  friend, 

And  all  the  rest,  though  fair  and  wise,  commend 

To  cold  obhnon — though  it  is  the  code 

Of  modern  morals,  and  the  beaten  road 

Which  those  poor  slaves  with  weary  footsteps  tread 

Who  travel  to  their  home  among  the  dead, 

By  the  broad  highway  of  the  world — and  so 

With  one  sad  friend,  and  many  a  jealous  foe, 

The  dreariest  and  the  longest  journey  go. 

Free  love  has  this,  different  from  gold  and  clay, 
That  to  divide  is  not  to  take  away. 
Like  ocean,  which  the  general  north  wind  breaks 
Into  ten  thousand  waves,  and  each  one  makes 
A  mirror  of  the  moon  ;  like  some  great  glass, 
Which  did  distort  whatever  form  might  pass. 
Dashed  into  fragments  by  a  playful  child, 
Which  then  reflects  its  eyes  and  forehead  mild, 
Giving  for  one,  which  it  could  ne'er  express, 
A  thousand  images  of  loveliness. 

If  I  were  one  whom  the  loud  world  held  wise, 
I  should  disdain  to  quote  authorities 
In  the  support  of  this  kind  of  love ; — 
Why  there  is  first  the  God  in  heaven  above. 
Who  wrote  a  book  called  Nature,  'tis  to  be 
Reviewed  I  hear  in  the  next  Quarterly; 
And  Socrates,  the  Jesus  Christ  of  Greece; 
And  Jesus  Christ  himself  did  never  cease 
To  urge  all  living  things  to  love  each  other, 
And  to  forgive  their  mutual  faults,  and  smother 
The  Devil  of  disunion  in  their  souls. 

*  »  »  »  * 

It  is  a  sweet  thing  friendship,  a  dear  balm, 
A  happy  and  auspicious  bird  of  calm, 
Which  rides  o'er  life's  ever  tumultuous  Ocean ; 
A  God  that  broods  o'er  chaos  in  commotion ; 
A  flower  which  fresh  as  Lapland  roses  are. 
Lifts  its  bold  head  into  the  world's  pure  air, 
And  blooms  most  radiantly  when  others  die, 
Health,  hope,  and  youth,  and  brief  prosperity  ; 
And,  with  the  light  and  odour  of  its  bloom, 
Shilling  within  the  dungeon  and  the  tomb; 
Whose  coming  is  as  light  and  music  are 
'Mid  dissonance  and  gloom — a  star 


*  These  fragments  do  not  properly  belong  to  the 
poems  of  1622.  They  are  gleanings  from  Shelley's 
manuscript  hooks  and  papers;  preserved  not  only  be- 
cause they  are  beautiful  in  themselves,  but  as  aflording 
indications  of  his  feelings  and  virtues. 


Which  moves  not  'mid  the  moving  heavens  alone, 

A  smile  among  dark  frowns — a  gentle  tone 

Among  rude  voices,  a  beloved  light, 

A  solitude,  a  refuge,  a  dehght. 

If  I  had  but  a  friend !  why  I  have  three, 

Even  by  my  own  confession ;  there  may  be 

Some  more,  for  what  I  know;  for  'tis  my  mind 

To  call  my  friends  all  who  are  wise  and  kind, 

And  these,  Heaven  knows,  at  best  are  very  few. 

But  none  can  ever  be  more  dear  than  you. 

Why  should  they  be  1  my  muse  has  lost  her  wings. 

Or  like  a  dying  swan  who  soars  and  sings 

I  should  describe  you  in  heroic  style. 

But  as  it  is — are  you  not  void  of  guile  1 

A  lovely  soul,  formed  to  be  blessed  and  bless ; 

A  well  of  sealed  and  secret  happiness ; 

A  lute,  which  those  whom  love  has  taught  to  play 

Make  music  on,  to  cheer  the  roughest  day  1 


n. 

MUSIC. 

I  pant  for  the  music  which  is  divine. 
My  heart  in  its  thirst  is  a  dying  flower ; 

Pour  forth  the  sound  like  enchanted  wine, 
Loosen  the  notes  in  a  silver  shower. 

Like  an  herbless  plain  for  the  gentle  rain, 

I  gasp,  I  faint,  till  they  wake  again. 

As  the  scent  of  a  violet  withered  up. 

Which  grew  by  the  brink  of  a  silver  lake, 

When  the  hot  noon  had  drained  its  dewy  cup, 
And  tank  there  was  none  its  thirst  to  slake ; 

And  the  violet  lay  dead,  whilst  the  odour  flew 

On  the  wings  of  the  wind  o'er  the  waters  blue. 

Let  me  drink  of  the  spirit  of  the  sweet  sound. 
More,  0  more ; — I  am  thirsting  yet ! 

It  loosens  the  serpent  which  care  had  bound 
Upon  my  heart  to  stifle  it. 

The  dissolving  strain,  through  every  vem. 

Passes  into  my  heart  and  bram. 

III. 

A  gentle  story  of  two  lovers  young. 

Who  met  in  innocence  and  died  in  sorrow, 

And  of  one  selfish  heart,  whose  rancour  clung 
Like  curses  on  them ;  arc  yc  slow  to  borrow 
The  lore  of  truth  from  such  a  tale  1 
Or  in  this  world's  deserted  vale, 
Do  ye  not  see  a  star  of  gladness 
Pierce  the  shadows  of  its  sadness. 

When  ye  are  cold,  that  love  is  a  light  sent 

From  heaven,  which  none  shall  quench,  to  cheer 
the  innocent '! 


FRAGMENTS. 


347 


IV. 

I  am  drunk  witli  the  honey  wine 
Of  the  inoou-iinfolcled  ej^Ianthie, 
Wliich  fairies  eatch  in  liyaeinth  biuls : — • 
The  bats,  the  dorinicc,  and  the  moles 
Sleep  in  the  walls  or  under  tlie  sward 
Of  the  desolate  Caslle  yard  ; 
And  when  'lis  spilt  on  the  summer  earth 
Or  its  fumes  arise  among  the  dew, 
Their  jocound  dreams  are  full  of  mirth, 
They  gibber  their  joy  in  sleej);  for  few 
Of  the  fairies  bear  those  bowls  so  new! 

V. 

And  who  feels  discord  now  or  sorrow] 

Love  is  the  universe  to-day — 
These  are  the  slaves  of  dim  to-morrow, 

Darkening  Life's  labyrinthine  way. 

\L 
TO  WILLIAM  SHELLEY. 

Thy  little  footsteps  on  the  sands 
Of  a  remote  and  lonely  shore  ; 
The  twinkling  of  thine  iufimt  hands 

Where  now  the  worm  will  feed  no  more : 
Thy  mingled  look  of  love  and  glee 
When  we  returned  to  gaze  on  thee. 

VIL 

The  world  is  dreary, 

And  I  am  weary 
Of  wandering  on  without  thee,  Mary; 

A  joy  was  erewhile 

In  thy  voice  and  thy  smile, 
And  'tis  gone,  when  I  should  be  gone  too,  Mary. 
July,  1819. 

VIII. 

My  dearest  Mary,  wherefore  hast  thou  gone. 
And  left  me  in  this  dreary  world  alone ! 
Thy  form  is  here  indeed — a  lovely  one — 
But  thou  art  fled,  gone  down  the  dreary  road, 
That  leads  to  Sorrow's  most  obscure  al)ode; 
Thou  sittest  on  the  hearth  of  pale  despair, 

Where 
For  thine  own  sake  I  cannot  follow  thee 
July,  1819. 

IX. 

And  where  is  truth]    On  tombs]   for  such  to  thee 
Has  been  my  heart — and  thy  dead  memory 
Has  lain  from  childhood,  many  a  changeful  year — 
Unchangingly  preserved  and  buried  there. 

X. 

When  a  lover  clasps  his  fairest. 
Then  be  our  dread  sport  the  rarest. 
Their  caresses  were  like  the  chafl' 
In  the  tempest,  and  be  our  laugh 
His  despair — ^her  epitaph ! 

When  a  mother  clasps  her  child, 
■Watch  till  dusty  Death  has  piled 
His  cold  ashes  on  the  clay ; 
She  has  loved  it  many  a  day — 
She  remains, — it  fades  away. 


XL 

One  .sung  of  thee  who  left  the  tale  untold, 

Like  the  false  dawns  which  perish  in  the  bur.sting: 

Like  ein])ty  cups  of  wrought  and  diedal  gold, 
Wl.icii  mock  the  lips  with  air,  when  they  arc 
thirsting. 

xn. 

Ye  gentle  visitations  of  calm  thought — 
Moods  like  the  memories  of  h:ii>pier  earth, 
Which,  come  arrayed  in  thoughts  of  little  worth. 

Like  stars  in  clouds  by  the  weak  winds  cnwrought. 
But  that  the  clouds  depart  and  stars  remain, 
While  they  remain,  and  ye,  alas,  depart ! 

xin. 

In  the  cave  which  wild  weeds  cover 
Wait  for  thine  ethereal  lover; 
For  the  pallid  moon  is  waning. 
O'er  the  spiral  cypress  hanging 
And  the  moon  no  cloud  is  staining. 

It  was  once  a  Roman's  chamber. 
Where  he  kept  his  darkest  revels. 
And  the  wild  weeds  twine  and  clamber; 
It  was  then  a  chasm  for  devils. 

XIV. 
Rome  has  fallen,  ye  see  it  lying 

Heaped  in  undistinguished  ruin : 
Nature  is  alone  undying. 

XV. 

How  sweet  it  is  to  sit  and  read  the  tales 
Of  mighty  poets,  and  to  hear  the  while 
Sweet  music,  which  when  the  attention  fails 
Fills  the  dim  pause 

XVI. 

Wake  the  serpent  not — lest  he 
Should  not  know  the  way  to  go, — 
Let  him  crawl  which  yet  lies  sleeping 
Through  the  deep  grass  of  the  meadow ! 
Not  a  bee  shall  hear  him  creeping. 
Not  a  may-fly  shall  awaken. 
From  its  cradling  blue-bell  shaken, 
Not  the  starlight  as  he's  sliding 
Through  the  grass  with  silent  gliding. 

xvn. 

The  fitful  alternations  of  the  rain, 

When  the  chill  wind,  languid  as  with  pain 

Of  its  own  heavy  moisture,  here  and  there 

Drives  through  the  gray  and  beamless  atmosphere. 

XVIII. 

Thefe  is  a  warm  and  gentle  atmosphere 
About  the  form  of  one  we  love,  and  thus 
As  in  a  tender  mist  our  spirits  are 

W'rapt  in  the of  that  which  is  to  us 

The  health  of  Ufe's  own  life. 

XIX. 

\Miat  men  gain  fairly — that  they  should  po.ssess. 
And  children  may  inherit  idleness. 
From  him  who  earns  it — This  is  understood; 
Private  injustice  may  be  general  good. 


348 


FRAGMENTS. 


But  he  who  jrains  hy  base  and  armed  wrong, 
Or  guilty  fraud,  or  base  compHanccs, 
Mav  be  despoiled  ;  even  as  a  stolon  dress 
Is  stripped  from  a  convicted  thief,  and  he 
Left  in  the  nakedness  of  mfamy. 

XX. 

I  would  not  be  a  king — enough 

Of  wo  it  is  to  love ; 
.  The  path  to  power  is  steep  and  rough, 

And  tempests  reign  above. 
I  would  not  climb  the  imperial  throne ; 
'Tis  built  on  ice  which  fortune's  sun 

Thaws  in  the  height  of  noon. 
Then  flircwell,  king,  yet  were  I  one. 
Care  would  not  come  so  soon. 
Would  he  and  I  were  flu  away 
Keeping  flocks  on  Himelay ! 

XXI. 

0  thou  immortal  deity 

Whose  throne  is  in  the  depth  of  human  thought, 

1  do  adjure  thy  power  and  thee 

By  all  that  man  may  be,  by  all  that  he  is  not, 
By  all  that  he  has  been  and  yet  must  be  ! 

XXII. 
ON  KEATS, 

WHO    DESIBED   THAT    ON    HIS    TOMB    SHOULD    BE 
INSCRIBED — 

«  Here  Ueth  One  whose  name  was  writ  on  water  !" 
But  ere  the  breath  that  could  erase  it  blew. 
Death,  in  remorse  for  all  that  fell  slaughter. 
Death,  the  immortalizing  winter  flew,  [grew 

Athwart  the  stream,  and   time's  monthly  torrent 
A  scroll  of  crystal,  blazoning  the  name 
Of  Adonais ! — 

XXIII. 

He  wanders  like  a  day-appearing  dream. 
Through  the  dim  wildernesses  of  the  mind  ; 

Through  desert  woods  and  tracts,  which  seem 
Like  ocean,  homeless,  boundless,  unconfined. 


XXIV. 

The  rude  wind  is  singing 
The  dirge  of  the  music  dead. 

The  cold  worms  are  clinging 
Where  kisses  were  lately  fed. 

XXV. 

What  art  thou,  Presumptuous,  who  profanest 

The  wreath  to  mighty  poets  only  due, 
Even  whilst  Ukc  a  forgotten  moon  thou  wanest  1 

Touch  not  those  leaves  which  for  the  eternal  few. 
Who  wander  o'er  the  paradise  of  fame. 

In  sacred  dedication  ever  grew, — • 
One  of  the  crowd  thou  art  without  a  name. 
Ah,  friend,  'tis  the  false  laurel  that  I  wear ; 

Bright  though  it  seem,  it  is  not  the  same 
As  that  which  bound  Milton's  immortal  hair; 

Its  dew  is  poison  and  the  hopes  that  quicken 
Under  its  chilling  shade,  though  seeming  fair, 

Are  flowers  which  die  almost  before  they  sicken. 

XXVI. 

When  soft  winds  and  sunny  skies 
With  the  green  earth  harmonize. 
And  the  young  and  dewy  dawn. 
Bold  as  an  unhunted  fawn, 
Up  the  windless  heaven  is  gone — 
Laugli — for  ambushed  in  the  day, 
Clouds  and  whirlwinds  watch  their  prey. 

XXVII. 

The  babe  is  at  peace  within  the  womb. 
The  corpse  is  at  rest  within  the  tomb. 
We  begin  in  what  we  end. 

XXVIII. 
EPITAPH. 


These  are  two  friends  whose  lives  were  undivided; 
So  let  their  memory  be,  now  they  have  glided 
Under  their  grave  ;  let  not  their  bones  be  parted. 
For  their  two  hearts  in  life  were  single-hearted. 


EDITOR'S    NOTE    ON    POEMS    OF    1822. 


349 


NOTE  ON   THE  POEMS   OF    1S22. 


BY   THE    EDITOR. 


This  morn  tliy  gnllant  bark 
Sailed  on  a  sunny  sea, 

'Tis  noon,  and  tempests  dark 
Have  wrecked  it  on  the  lee. 
Ah  wo  !  ah  wo  ! 

By  spirits  of  the  deep 

Thou'rt  cradled  on  the  billow, 

To  thy  eternal  sleep. 

Thou  sleep's!  upon  the  shore 
Beside  the  knelling  surge, 

And  sea-nymplis  evermore 
Shall  sadly  chant  thy  dirge. 
They  come  !  they  come, 


The  spirits  of  the  deep, 

While  near  tliy  sea-weed  pillow 

My  lonely  watch  I  keep. 

From  far  across  the  sea 
I  hear  a  loud  lament, 
By  echo's  voice  for  thee 
From  ocean's  caverns  sent. 
O  list:  O  list, 
The  spirits  of  the  deep  ; 
They  raise  a  wail  of  sorrow 
While  I  for  ever  weep. 


WiTii  this  last  year  of  the  Hfe  of  Shelley  these 
Notes  end.  They  are  not  what  I  intended  them 
to  be.  I  began  with  energy  and  a  burning  desire 
to  impart  to  the  world,  in  worthy  language,  the 
sense  I  have  of  the  virtues  and  genius  of  the 
Beloved  and  the  Lost;  my  strength  has  failed 
under  the  task.  Recurrence  to  the  past — full  of 
its  own  deep  and  unforgotten  joys  and  sorrows, 
contrasted  with  succeeding  years  of  painful  and 
solitary  struggle,  has  shaken  my  health.  Days  of 
great  suffering  have  followed  my  attempts  to  write, 
and  these  again  produced  a  weakness  and  languor 
that  spread  their  sinister  influence  over  these  notes. 
I  dislike  speaking  of  myself,  but  cannot  help  apolo- 
gizing to  the  dead,  and  to  the  public,  for  not  hav- 
ing executed  in  the  manner  I  desired  the  history  I 
engaged  to  give  of  Shelley's  writings.* 

The  winter  of  1822  was  passed  in  Pisa,  if  we 
might  call  that  season  whiter  in  which  autumn 
merged  into  spring,  after  the  interval  of  but  few 
days  of  bleaker  weather.  Spring  sprang  up  early, 
and  with  extreme  beauty.     Shelley  had  conceived 

*  I  at  one  time  feared  that  the  correction  of  the  press 
misht  be  less  exact  throush  my  illness  ;  but,  I  believe 
that  it  is  nearly  free  from  error.  No  omissions  have 
been  made  in  this  edition  ;  (in  the  last  of  1839,  they 
were  confined  to  certain  passages  of  "  Queen  Mab  ;") 
some  asterisks  occur  in  a  few  pages,  as  they  did  in  the 
volume  of  Posthumous  Poems,  either  because  they  re- 
fer to  private  concerns,  or  because  the  original  manu- 
scri[)t  was  left  imperfect.  Did  any  one  see  the  papers 
front  which  I  drew  that  volume,  the  wonder  would  be 
haw  any  eyes  or  patience  were  capable  of  e.xtracting  it 
from  so  confused  a  mass,  interlined  and  broken  into 
fragments,  so  that  the  sense  could  only  be  deciphered 
and  joined  by  guesses,  which  miL'lit  seem  rather  intuitive 
than  founded  on  reasoning.  Yet  I  believe  no  mistake 
was  made. 


the  idea  of  writing  a  tragedy  on  the  subject  of 
Charles  I.  It  was  one  that  he  believed  adapted 
for  a  drama ;  full  of  mtense  interest,  contrasted 
character,  and  busy  passion.  He  had  recommended 
it  long  before,  when  he  encouraged  me  to  attempt 
a  play.  Whether  the  subject  proved  more  difficult 
than  he  anticipated,  or  whether  in  fact  he  coiUd  not 
bend  his  mind  away  from  the  broodings  and  wan- 
derings of  thought,  divested  from  human  interest, 
which  he  best  loved,  I  cannot  tell ;  but  he  pro- 
ceeded slowly,  and  threw  it  aside  for  one  of  the 
most  mystical  of  his  poems,  « The  Triumph  of 
Life,"  on  which  he  was  employed  at  the  last. 

His  passion  for  boating  was  fostered  at  this  time 
by  having  among  our  friends  several  sailors ;  his 
favourite  companion,  Edward  EUerker  Williams, 
of  the  9th  Light  Dragoons,  had  begun  his  life 
in  the  navy,  and  had  afterwards  entered  the  army ; 
he  had  spent  several  years  in  India,  and  his  love 
for  adventure  and  manly  exercises  accorded  with 
Shelley's  taste.  It  was  their  favourite  plan  to 
build  a  boat  such  as  they  could  manage  themselves, 
and,  living  on  the  sea-coast, to  enjoy  at  every  hour 
and  season  the  pleasure  they  loved  best.  Captain 
Roberts,  R.  N.,  undertook  to  build  the  boat  at 
Genoa,  where  he  was  also  occupied  in  building  the 
Bolivar  for  Lord  Byron.  Ours  was  to  be  an  open 
boat,  on  a  model  taken  from  one  of  the  royal  dock- 
yards. I  have  since  heard  that  there  was  a  defect 
in  this  model,  and  that  it  wijs  never  sea-worthv'. 
In  the  month  of  February,  Shelley  and  his  fiicnd 
went  to  Spezia  to  seek  for  houses  for  us.  Only 
one  was  to  be  found  at  all  suitable  ;  however,  a 
trifle  such  as  not  finding  a  house  could  not  stop 
Shelley  ;  the  one  found  was  to  serve  for  all.     It 


350 


EDITOR'S     NOTE    OIs'    POEMS    OF    182  2, 


was  unfurnished  ;  we  sent  our  furniture  by  sea, 
and  with  a  good  deal  of  precipitation,  arising  from 
his  impatience,  made  our  removal.  We  left  Pisa 
on  the  2Gth  of  April. 

The  bay  of  Spczia  is  of  considerable  extent,  and 
divided  by  a  rocky  promontory  into  a  larger  and 
smaller  one.  The  town  of  Lerici  is  situated  on 
the  eastern  point,  and  in  the  depth  of  the  smaller 
bay,  which  bears  the  name  of  this  town,  is  the 
village  Sant'  Arcnzo.  Our  house,  Casa  Magni, 
was  close  to  this  village  ;  the  sea  came  up  to  the 
door,  a  steep  hill  sheltered  it  behind.  The  pro- 
prietor of  the  estate  on  which  it  was  situated  was 
insane  ;  he  had  begun  to  erect  a  large  house  at  the 
summit  of  the  hill  behind,  but  his  malady  prevented 
its  being  finished,  and  it  was  falling  into  ruin.  He 
had,  and  this  to  the  Italians  had  seemed  a  glaring 
sympton  of  veiy  decided  madness,  rooted  up  the 
oUves  on  the  hill  side,  and  planted  forest  trees ; 
these  were  mostly  young,  but  the  plantation  was 
more  in  English  taste  than  I  ever  elsewhere  saw 
in  Italy  ;  some  fine  walnut  and  ilex  trees  inter- 
mingled their  dark  massy  foliage,  and  formed 
groups  which  still  haunt  my  memory,  as  then  they 
satiated  the  eye,  with  a  sense  of  loveliness.  The 
scene  was  indeed  of  unimaginable  beauty ;  the 
blue  extent  of  waters,  the  almost  land-locked  bay, 
the  near  castle  of  Lerici,  shutting  it  in  to  the  east, 
and  distant  Porto  Venere  to  the  west ;  the  varied 
forms  of  the  precipitous  rocks  that  bound  in  the 
beach,  over  which  there  was  only  a  winding  rug- 
ged footpath  towards  Lerici,  and  none  on  the 
other  side  ;  the  tideless  sea  leaving  no  sands  nor 
shingle, — formed  a  picture  such  as  one  sees  in 
Salvator  Rosa's  landscapes  only :  sometimes  the 
sunshine  vanished  when  the  sirocco  raged — the 
ponente,  the  wind  was  called  on  that  shore.  The 
gales  and  squalls,  that  hailed  our  first  arrival,  sur- 
rounded the  bay  with  foam ;  the  howling  wind 
swept  round  our  exposed  house,  and  the  sea 
roared  unremittingly,  so  that  we  almost  fancied 
ourselves  on  board  ship.  At  other  times  sunshine 
and  calm  invested  sea  and  sky,  and  the  rich  tints 
of  Italian  heaven  bathed  the  scene  in  bright  and 
ever-varying  tints. 

The  natives  were  wilder  than  the  place.  Our 
near  neighbours,  of  Sant'  Arenzo,  were  more  like 
savages  than  any  people  I  ever  before  lived  among. 
Many  a  night  they  passed  on  the  beach,  singing  or 
rather  howling,  the  women  dancing  about  among 
the  waves  that  broke  at  their  feet,  the  men  leaning 
against  the  rocks  and  joining  in  their  loud  wild 
chorus.  We  could  get  no  provisions  nearer  than 
Sarzana,  at  a  distance  of  three  miles  and  a  half 


off,  with  the  torrent  of  the  Magra  between ;  and 
even  there  the  supply  was  very  deficient.  Had  we 
been  wrecked  on  an  island  of  the  South  Seas,  we 
could  scarcely  have  felt  ourselves  further  from 
civilization  and  comfort;  but  where  the  sun  shines 
the  latter  becomes  an  unnecessary  luxurj',  and  we 
had  enough  society  among  ourselves.  Yet  I  con- 
fess housekeeping  became  rather  a  toilsome  task, 
especially  as  I  was  suffering  in  my  health,  and 
could  not  exert  myself  actively. 

At  first  the  fatal  boat  had  not  arrived,  and  was 
expected  with  great  impatience.  On  Monday, 
May  r2th,  it  came.  Williams  records  tlie  long- 
wished-for  fact  in  his  journal :  "  Cloudy  and  threat- 
ening weather.  M.  Maglian  called,  and  after 
dinner  and  while  walking  with  him  on  the  terrace 
we  discovered  a  strange  sail  coming  round  the 
point  of  Porto  Venere,  which  proved  at  length  to 
be  Shelley's  boat.  She  had  left  Genoa  on  Thurs- 
day last,  but  had  been  driven  back  by  the  prevail- 
ing bad  winds.  A  Mr.  Hcslop  and  two  English 
seamen  brought  her  round,  and  they  speak  most 
highly  of  her  performances.  She  does  indeed  ex- 
cite my  surprise  and  admiration.  Shelley  and  I 
walked  to  Lerici,  and  made  a  stretch  off  the  land 
to  try  her;  and  I  find  she  fetches  whatever  she 
looks  at.  In  short,  we  have  now  a  perfect  play- 
thing for  the  summer."^It  was  thus  that  short- 
sighted mortals  welcomed  death,  he  having  disguised 
his  grim  form  in  a  pleasing  mask  !  The  time  of 
the  fi-iendswas  now  spent  on  the  sea  ;  the  weather 
became  fine,  and  our  whole  party  often  passed  the 
evenings  on  the  water,  when  the  wind  promised 
pleasant  sailing.  Shelley  and  Williams  made 
longer  excursions;  they  sailed  several  times  to 
Massa ;  they  had  engaged  one  of  the  seamen  who 
brought  her  round,  a  boy,  by  name  Charles  Vivian : 
and  they  had  not  the  slightest  apprehension  of 
danger.  When  the  weather  was  unfavourable, 
they  employed  themselves  with  alterations  in  the 
rigging,  and  by  building  a  boat  of  canvass  and 
reeds,  as  light  as  possible,  to  have  on  board  the 
other,  for  the  convenience  of  landing  in  waters 
too  shallow  for  the  larger  vessel.  When  Shelley 
was  on  board,  he  had  his  papers  with  him  ;  and 
much  of  the  "  Triumph  of  Life"  was  written  as 
he  sailed  or  weltered  on  that  sea  which  was  soon 
to  engulf  him. 

The  heats  set  in,  in  the  middle  of  June ;  the 
days  became  excessively  hot,  but  the  sea  breeze 
cooled  the  air  at  noon,  and  extreme  heat  always 
put  Shelley  in  spirits :  a  long  drought  had  pre- 
ceded the  heat,  and  prayers  for  rain  were  being 
put  up  in  the  churches,  and  processions  of  relics 


EDITOR'S    NOTE    ON    POEMS    OF     1822. 


351 


for  the  same  effect  took  place  in  every  town.  At 
this  time  we  received  letters  announcing  the 
arrival  of  Leigh  Hunt  at  Pisa.  Shelley  was  very 
ea'i-cr  to  see  him.  I  was  confined  to  my  room  by 
severe  illness,  and  could  not  move  ;  it  was  agreed 
that  Shelley  and  Williams  should  go  to  Leghorn 
in  the  boat.  Strange  that  no  fear  of  danger  crossed 
our  minds!  Living  on  the  sea-shore,  the  ocean 
became  as  a  plaything:  as  a  child  may  sport  with 
a  lighted  stick,  till  a  spark  inllanies  a  forest  and 
spreads  destruction  over  all,  so  did  we  fearlessly  and 
blindly  tamper  with  danger,  and  make  a  game  of  the 
terrors  of  the  ocean.  Our  Itahan  neighbours  even 
trusted  themselves  asfarasMassa  in  the  skill';  and 
the  running  down  the  hne  of  coast  to  Leghorn, 
gave  no  more  notion  of  peril  than  a  fair-weather 
inland  navigation  would  have  done  to  those  who 
had  never  seen  the  sea.  Once,  some  months 
before,  Trelawny  had  raised  a  warning  voice  as  to 
the  difference  of  our  calm  bay,  and  the  open  sea 
beyond;  but  Shelley  and  his  friend,  with  their 
one  sailor  boy,  thought  themselves  a  match  for 
the  storms  of  the  Mediterranean,  in  a  boat  which 
they  looked  upon  as  equal  to  all  it  was  put  to  do. 

On  the  1st  of  July  they  left  us.  If  ever  shadow 
of  future  ill  darkened  the  present  hour,  such  was 
over  my  mind  when  they  went.  During  the  whole 
of  Our  stay  at  Lerici,  an  intense  presentiment  of 
coming  evil  brooded  over  my  mind,  and  covered 
this  beautiful  place,  and  genial  summer,  with  the 
shadow  of  coming  misery — I  had  vainly  struggled 
with  these  emotions — they  seemed  accounted  for 
by  my  illness,  but  at  this  hour  of  separation  they 
recurred  with  renewed  violence.  I  did  not  antici- 
pate danger  for  them,  but  a  vague  expectation  of 
evil  shook  me  to  agony,  and  I  could  scarcely  bring 
myself  to  let  them  go.  The  day  was  calm  and 
clear,  and  a  fine  breeze  rising  at  twelve  they 
weighed  for  Leghorn  ;  they  made  the  run  of  about 
fifty  miles  in  seven  hours  and  a  half:  the  Bolivar 
was  in  port,  and  the  regulations  of  the  health-office 
not  permitting  them  to  go  on  shore  after  sunset 
they  borrowed  cushions  from  the  larger  vessel,  and 
slept  on  board  their  boat. 

They  spent  a  week  at  Pisa  and  Leghorn.  The 
want  of  rain  was  severely  felt  in  the  country.  The 
weather  continued  sultry  and  fine.  I  have  heard 
that  Shelley  all  this  time  was  in  brilliant  spirits 
Not  long  before,  talking  of  presentiment,  he  had 
said  the  only  one  that  he  ever  found  infallible, 
was  the  certain  advent  of  some  evil  fortune  when 
he  felt  peculiarly  joyous.  Yet  if  ever  fate 
whispered  of  coming  disaster,  such  inaudible,  but 
not  unfelt,  prognostics  hovered  around  us.  The 
beauty  of  the  place  seemed  unearthly  in  its  excess : 


the  distance  we  were  at  from  all  signs  of  civiliza- 
tion the  sea  at  our  feet,  its  murnmrs  or  its  roaring 
for  ever  in  our  ears, — all  these  things  led  the  minij 
to  brood  over  strange  thoughts,  and,  lifting  it  from 
every-day  life,  caused  it  to  be  familiar  with  tha 
unreal.  A  sort  of  spell  surrounded  us,  and  each 
da_v,  as  the  voyagers  did  not  return,  we  grew  rest- 
less and  disquieted,  and  yet,  strange  to  say,  wa 
were  not  fearful  of  the  most  apparent  danger. 

The  spell  snapped,  it  was  all  over  ;  an  iiitcrva\ 
of  agonizing  doubt — of  days  passed  in  miserablu 
journeys  to  gain  tidings,  of  hopes  that  took  firmei 
root,  even  as  they  were  more  baseless — were 
changed  to  the  certainty  of  the  death  that  eclipsed 
all  hiippiness  for  the  survivors  for  evermore. 

There  was  something  in  our  fate  peculiarly 
harrowing.  The  remains  of  those  we  lost  wero 
cast  on  shore ;  but  by  the  quarantine  laws  of  the 
coast,  we  were  not  permitted  to  have  possession 
of  them — the  laws,  with  respect  to  every  thing 
cast  on  land  by  the  sea,  being,  that  such  should  be 
burned,  to  prevent  the  possibility  of  any  remnant 
bringing  the  plague  into  Italy ;  and  no  representa- 
tion could  alter  the  law.  At  length,  through  the 
kind  and  unwearied  exertions  of  Mr.  Dawkins,  our 
Charge  d' Affaires  at  Florence,  we  gained  per- 
mission to  receive  the  ashes  after  the  bodies  were 
consumed.  Nothing  could  equal  the  zeal  of 
Trelawny  in  carrying  our  wishes  into  effect.  He 
was  indefatigable  in  his  exertions,  and  full  of  fore- 
thought and  sagacity  in  his  arrangements.  It  was 
a  fearful  task:  he  stood  before  us  at  last,  his  hands 
scorched  and  blistered  by  the  flames  of  the  funeral 
pyre,  and  by  touching  the  burnt  relics  as  he  placed 
them  in  the  receptacles  prepared  for  the  purpose. 
And  there,  in  compass  of  that  small  case,  was 
gathered  all  that  remained  on  earth  of  him  whose 
genius  and  virtue  were  a  crown  of  glory  to  the 
world — whose  love  had  been  the  source  of  happiness 
peace,  and  good, — to  be  buried  with  him  ! 

The  concluding  stanzas  of  the  Adonais  pointed 
out  where  the  remains  ought  to  be  deposited  ;  in 
addition  to  which  our  beloved  child  lay  buried  in 
the  cemetery  at  Rome.  Thither  Shelley's  ashes 
were  conveyed,  and  they  rest  beneath  one  of  the 
antique  weed-grown  towers  that  recur  at  intervals 
in  the  circuit  of  the  massy  ancient  wall  of  Rome. 
The  vignette  of  the  title  page,  is  taken  from  a 
sketch  made  on  the  spot  by  Captain  Roberts.  He 
selected  the  hallowed  place  himself;  there  is  the 

Sepulchre, 

O,  not  of  him,  but  of  our  joy  1 

***** 
And  crny  walls  moulder  round,  on  which  dull  Time 
Feeds  like  slow  fire  upon  a  hoary  liraiui  ; 
And  one  keen  pyramid,  with  wedge  sublime, 


352 


EDITOR'S    NOTE    ON    POEMS    OF    1822. 


Pavilioning  the  dust  of  him  who  planned 
This  refuge  for  his  memory,  doth  stand 
Like  flame  transformed  to  marble  ;  and  beneath 
A  field  is  spread,  on  which  a  newer  hand 
Have  pitched  in  Heaven's  smile  their  csmp  of  death. 
Welcoming    him   we   lose    with   scarce    exlinauislied 
breath. 

Could  sorrow  for  the  lost,  and  shuddering 
anguish  at  the  vacancy  left  behind,  be  soothed 
by  poetic  imaginations,  there  was  something  in 
Shelley's  fate  to  mitigate  pangs,  which  yet  ala's ! 
could  not  be  so  mitigated ;  for  hard  reality  brings 
too  miserably  home  to  the  mourner,  all  that  is  lost 
of  happiness,  all  of  lonely  unsolaced  struggle  that 
remains.  Still  though  dreams  and  hues  of  poetry 
cannot  blunt  grief,  it  invests  his  fate  with  a  sublime 
fitness,  which  those  less  nearly  allied  may  regard 
with  complacency.  A  year  before,  he  had  poured 
into  verse  all  such  ideas  about  death  as  gave  it  a 
glory  of  its  own.  He  had,  as  it  now  seems,  almost 
anticipated  his  own  destiny  ;  and  when  the  mind 
figures  liis  skiff  wrapped  from  sight  by  the  thunder- 
storm, as  it  was  last  seen  upon  the  purple  sea ;  and 
then,  as  the  cloud  of  the  tempest  passed  away,  no 
sign  remained  where    it    had    been* — who   but 

*  Captain  Rdberts  watched  the  vessel  with  his  glass 
from  the  top  of  the  lighthouse  of  Leghorn,  on  its  home- 


will  regard  as  a  prophecy  the  last  stanza  of  the 
"  Adonaisl" 

The  breath,  whose  might  I  have  invoked  in  song 
Descends  on  me  ;  my  spirit's  bark  is  driven, 
Far  from  the  shore,  far  from  the  trembling  throng, 
Whose  sails  were  never  to  the  tempest  given  ; 
The  massy  earth  and  sphered  skies  are  riven '. 
I  am  borne  darkly,  fearfully,  afar ; 
Whilst  burning  thro-ugh  the  inmost  veil  of  heaven, 
The  soul  of  Adonais  like  a  star. 
Beacons  from  the  abode  where  the  eternal  are. 

ward  track.  They  were  ofl'Via  Reggio,  at  some  distance 
from  shore,  when  a  storm  was  driven  over  the  sea.  It 
enveloped  them  and  several  larger  vessels  in  darkness. 
When  the  cloud  passed  onward,  Roberts  looked  again, 
and  saw  every  other  vessel  sailing  on  the  ocean  e.xcept 
their  little  schooner,  which  had  vanished.  From  that 
time  he  could  scarcely  doubt  the  fatal  truth;  yet  we 
fancied  that  they  might  have  been  driven  towards  Elba, 
or  Corsica,  and  so  be  saved.  The  observation  made  as 
to  the  spot  where  the  boat  disappeared,  caused  it  to  be 
found,  through  the  exertions  of  Trelawny  for  that  effect. 
It  had  gone  down  in  ten  fathom  water  ;  it  had  not 
capsized,  and,  except  such  things  as  had  floated  from 
her,  every  thing  was  found  on  board  exactly  as  it  had 
been  placed  when  they  sailed.  The  boat  itself  was 
uninjured.  Roberts  possessed  himself  of  her,  and  decked 
her,  but  she  proved  not  seaworthy,  and  her  shattered 
planks  now  lie  rotting  on  the  shore  of  one  of  the  Ionian 
islands,  on  which  she  was  wrecked. 

Putney,  May,  1st,  1839. 


PREFACE 


TO  THE  VOLUME  OF  POSTHUMOUS  POEMS, 

PUBLISHED  IN  1S24. 


In  nobil  saniiio,  vita  iiniile  e  queta, 

Ed  in  alto  intolletto  un  piirn  core  ; 

Frutlo  senile  in  siU  giovenil  fiore, 

E  in  aspetto  pensoso,  anima  lieta. — Petrarca. 


It  had  been  my  wish,  on  presenting  the  public 
with  the  Posthumous  Poems  of  Shelley,  to  have 
accompanied  them  by  a  biographical  notice  :  as  it 
appeared  to  me,  that  at  this  moment  a  narration 
of  the  events  of  my  husband's  Hfe  would  come 
more  gracefully  from  other  hands  than  mine,  I  ap- 
plied to  Leigh  Huxt.  The  distinguished  friend- 
ship that  Shelley  felt  for  him,  and  the  enthusiastic 
affection  with  which  Leigh  Hunt  clings  to  his 
friend's  memory,  seemed  to  point  him  out  as  the 
person  best  calculated  for  such  an  undertaking. 
His  absence  from  this  country,  which  prevented 
our  mutual  explanation,  has  unfortunately  rendered 
my  scheme  abortive.  I  do  not  doubt  but  that  on 
some  other  occasion  he  will  pay  this  tribute  to  his 
lost  friend,  and  sincerely  regret  that  the  volutne 
which  I  edit  has  not  been  honoured  by  its  insertion. 

The  comparative  solitude  in  which  Shelley 
lived,  was  the  occasion  that  he  was  personally 
known  to  few;  and  his  fearless  enthusiasm  in  the 
cause  which  he  considered  the  most  sacred  upon 
earth,  the  improvement  of  the  moral  and  physical 
state  of  mankind,  was  the  chief  reason  why  he, 
like  other  illustrious  reformers,  was  pursued  by 
hatred  and  calumny.  No  man  was  ever  more 
devoted  than  he,  to  the  endeavour  of  making  those 
around  him  happy;  no  man  ever  possessed  friends 
more  unfeignedly  attached  to  him.  The  ungrateful 
world  did  not  feel  his  loss,  and  the  gap  it  made 
seemed  to  close  as  quickly  over  his  memory  as  the 
murderous  sea  over  his  living  frame.  Hereafter 
men  will  lament  that  his  transccndant  powers  of 
intellect  were  extinguished  before  they  had  be- 
stowed on  them  their  choicest  treasures.  To  his 
friends  his  loss  is  irremediable :  the  wise,  the  brave 
the  gentle,  is  gone  for  ever !  He  is  to  them  as  a 
bright  vision,  whose  radiant  track,  left  behind  in 
the  memory,  is  worth  all  the  realities  that  society- 
can  afford.  Before  the  critics  contradict  me,  let 
them  appeal  to  any  one  who  had  ever  known  him  : 
to  sec  him  was  to  love  him ;  and  his  presence,  like 
Ithuricl's  spear,  was  alone  sufficient  to  disclose 
the  falsehood  of  the  tale  which  his  enemies 
whispered  in  the  ear  of  the  jgnorant  world. 

His  life  was  spent  in  the  contemplation  of  na- 
ture, in  arduous  study,  or  in  acts  of  kindness  and 
affection.  He  was  an  elegant  scholar  and  a  pro- 
45 


found  metaphysician :  without  possessing  much 
scientific  knowledge,  he  was  unrivalled  in  the 
justness  and  extent  of  his  observations  on  natural 
objects ;  he  knew  every  plant  by  its  name,  and 
was  familiar  with  the  history  and  habits  of  every 
production  of  the  earth  ;  he  could  interpret  without 
a  fault  each  appearance  in  the  sky,  and  the  varied 
phenomena  of  heaven  and  earth  filled  him  with 
deep  emotion.  He  made  his  study  and  reading- 
room  of  the  shadowed  copse,  the  stream,  the  lake, 
and  the  waterfall.  Ill  health  and  continued  pain 
preyed  upon  his  powers ;  and  the  sohtude  in  which 
we  lived,  particularly  on  our  first  arrival  in  Italy, 
although  congenial  to  his  feelings,  must  frequently 
have  weighed  upon  his  spirits ;  those  beautiful  and 
affecting  "  Lines,  written  in  dejection  at  Naples," 
were  composed  at  such  an  internal;  but  when  in 
health,  his  spirits  were  buoyant  and  youthful  to  an 
extraordinary  degree. 

Such  was  his  love  for  nature,  that  every  page 
of  his  poetry  is  associated  in  the  minds  of  his  friends 
with  the  loveliest  scenes  of  the  countries  which  he 
inhabited.  In  early  life  he  visited  the  most  beautiful 
parts  of  this  countrj-  and  Ireland.  Afterwards  the 
Alps  of  Switzerland  became  his  inspirers.  "Pro- 
metheus Unbound"  was  written  among  the  deserted 
and  flower-grown  ruins  of  Rome  ;  and  when  he 
made  his  home  under  the  Pisan  hills,  their  roofless 
recesses  harboured  him  as  he  composed  "  The 
Witch  of  Atlas,"  «  Adonais,"  and  "  Hellas."  In 
the  wild  but  beautiful  bay  of  Spezia,  the  winds 
and  waves  which  he  loved  became  his  playmates. 
His  days  were  chiefly  spent  on  the  water;  the 
management  of  his  boat,  its  alterations  and  im- 
provements, were  his  principal  occupation.  At 
night,  when  the  unclouded  moon  shone  on  the 
calm  sea,  he  often  went  alone  in  his  little  shallop 
to  the  rocky  caves  that  bordered  it,  and  sitting  be- 
neath their  shelter  wrote  "  The  Triumph  of  Life," 
the  last  of  his  productions.  The  beaut)^  but 
strangeness  of  this  lonely  place,  the  refined 
pleasure  which  he  felt  in  the  companionship  of  a 
few  selected  friends,  our  entire  sequestration  from 
the  rest  of  the  world,  all  contributed  to  render  this 
period  of  his  life  one  of  continued  enjoyment.  I 
am  convinced  that  the  two  months  we  passed  there 
were  the  happiest  which  he  had  ever  known  :  his 
2  G  2  353 


354 


PREFACE  TO  POSTHUMOUS  POEMS. 


health  even  rapidly  improved,  and  he  was  never 
better  than  when  I  last  saw  him,  full  of  spirits  and 
joy,  embark  for  Leghorn,  tliat  he  might  there  wel- 
come Lkigii  Hunt  to  Italy.  I  was  to  have  ac- 
companied him,  but  illness  confined  me  to  my  room, 
and  thus  put  the  seal  on  my  misfortune.  His 
vessel  bore  out  of  sight  with  a  favourable  wind, 
and  I  remained  awaiting  his  return  by  flie  breakers 
of  that  sea  which  was  about  to  engulf  him. 

He  spent  a  week  at  Pisa,  employed  in  kind 
offices  towards  his  friends,  and  enjoying  with  keen 
delight  the  renewal  of  their  intercourse.  He  then 
embarked  with  Williams,  the  chosen  and  beloved 
sharer  of  his  plcasui'cs  and  of  his  fate,  to  return  to 
us.  We  waited  for  them  in  vain ;  the  sea  by  its 
restless  moaning  seemed  to  desire  to  inform  us  of 

what  we  would  not  learn : but  a  veil  may  well 

be  drawn  over  such  misery.  The  real  anguish  of 
those  moments  transcended  all  the  fictions  that 
the  most  glowing  imagination  ever  })ortrayed  :  our 
seclusion,  the  savage  nature  of  the  inhabitants  of 
the  surrounding  villages,  and  our  immediate  \-icinity 
to  the  troubled  sea,  combined  to  imbue  with  strange 
horror  our  days  of  uncertainty.  The  tr^th  was 
at  last  known, — a  truth  that  made  our  loved  and 
lovely  Italy  appear  a  tomb,  its  sky  a  pall.  Every 
heart  echoed  the  deep  lament,  and  my  only  con- 
solation was  in  the  praise  and  earnest  love  that 
each  voice  bestowed  and  each  countenance  demon- 
strated for  him  we  had  lost, — not,  I  fondly  hope, 
for  ever :  his  unearthly  and  elevated  nature  is  a 
pledge  of  the  continuation  of  his  being,  although  in 
an  altered  form.  Rome  received  his  ashes ;  they  are 
deposited  beneath  its  weed-grown  wall,  and  "  the 
world's  sole  monument"  is  enriched  by  his  remains. 


I  must  add  a  few  words  concerning  the  contents 
of  this  volume.  "Julian  and  Maddalo,"  "The 
Witch  of  Atlas,"  and  most  of  the  Translations, 
were  written  some  years  ago ;  and,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  "  The  Cyclops,"  and  the  Scenes  from  the 
"  Magico  Prodigioso,"  may  be  considered  as  hav- 
ing received  the  author's  ultimate  corrections. 
"The  Triumph  of  Life"  was  his  last  work,  and 
was  left  in  so  unfinished  a  state,  that  I  arranged 
it  in  its  present  form  with  great  difficulty.  All  his 
poems  which  were  scattered  in  periodical  works 
are  collected  in  this  volume,  and  I  have  added  a 
reprint  of  "  Alastor,  or  the  Spirit  of  SoUtude  :" — 
the  difficulty  with  which  a  copy  can  be  obtained 
is  the  cause  of  its  republication.  Many  of  the 
Miscellaneous  Poems,  written  on  the  spur  of  the 
occasion,  and  never  retouched,  I  found  among  his 
manuscript  books,  and  have  carefully  copied.  I 
have  subjoined,  whenever  I  have  been  able,  the 
date  of  their  composition. 

I  do  not  know  whether  the  critics  will  reprehend 
the  insertion  of  some  of  the  most  imperfect  among 
them  ;  but  I  frankly  own  that  I  have  been  more 
actuated  by  the  fear  lest  any  monument  of  his 
genius  should  escape  me,  than  the  wish  of  pre- 
senting nothing  but  what  was  complete  to  the 
fastidious  reader.  I  feel  secure  that  the  liOvers  of 
Shelley's  Poetry  (who  know  how  more  than  any 
poet  of  the  present  day  every  line  and  word  he 
wrote  is  instinct  with  peculiar  beauty)  will  pardon 
and  thank  me :  I  consecrate  this  volume  to  them. 


Mart  W.  Shelley. 


London,  June  Ist,  1824. 


TEANSLATIONS. 


HYMNS   OE   HOMER. 


HYMN  TO   MERCURY. 


Sing,  Muse,  the  son  of  Maia  and  of  Jove, 

The  Herald-child,  king  of  Arcadia 
And  all  its  pastoral  hills,  whom  in  sweet  love 

Having  been  interwoven,  modest  May 
Bore  Heaven's  dread  Supreme — an  antique  grove 

Shadowed  the  cavern  where  the  lovers  lay 
In  the  deep  night,  unseen  by  Gods  or  Men, 
And  white-armed  Juno  slumbered  sweetly  then. 


Now,  when  the  joy  of  Jove  had  its  fulfilling, 
And  Heaven's  tenth  moon  chronicled  her  relief, 

She  gave  to  Hght  a  babe  all  babes  excelling, 
A  schemer  subtle  beyond  all  belief; 

A  shepherd  of  thin  dreams,  a  cow-stealing, 
A  night-watching,  and  door-waylaying  thief. 

Who  'mongst  the  Gods  was  soon  about  to  thieve, 

And  other  glorious  actions  to  achieve. 


The  babe  was  bom  at  the  first  peep  of  day  ; 

He  began  playing  on  the  lyre  at  noon. 
And  the  same  evening  did  he  steal  away 

Apollo's  herds; — the  fourth  day  of  the  moon 
On  which  him  bore  the  venerable  May, 

From  her  immortal  limbs  he  leaped  full  soon, 
Nor  long  could  in  the  sacred  cradle  keep. 
But  out  to  seek  Apollo's  herds  would  creep. 


Out  of  the  lofty  cavern  wandering 

He    found     a    tortoise,    and    cried    out — "A 
treasure!" 
(For  Mercury  first  made  the  tortoise  sing) 

The  beast  before  the  portal  at  his  leisure 
The  flowery  herbage  was  depasturing. 

Moving  his  feet  in  a  deliberate  measure 
Over  the  turf.     Jove's  profitable  son 
Eyeing  him  laughed,  and  laughing  thus  begun : — 


"  A  useful  godsend  axe  you  to  me  now. 
King  of  the  dance,  companion  of  the  feast. 

Lovely  in  all  your  nature  !  Welcome,  you 

Excellent  plaything !    Where,  sweet  mountain 
beast. 

Got  you  that  speckled  shell  1    Thus  much  I  know. 
You  must  come  home  with  me   and  be  my 
guest ; 

You  will  give  joy  to  me,  and  I  will  do 

All  that  is  in  my  power  to  honour  you. 


"Better  to  be  at  home  than  out  of  door; 

So  come  with  me,  and  though  it  has  been  said 
That  you  alive  defend  fi-om  magic  power, 

I  know   you  will  sing   sweetly  when  you're 
dead." 
Thus  having  spoken,  the  quaint  infant  bore. 

Lifting  it  from  the  grass  on  which  it  fed. 
And  gi'asping  it  in  his  delighted  hold. 
His  treasured  prize  into  the  cavern  old. 


Then  scooping  with  a  chisel  of  gray  steel. 
He  boi'ed  the  life  and  soul  out  of  the  beast — 

Not  swifter  a  swift  thought  of  wo  or  weal 
Darts  through  the  tumult  of  a  human  breast 

Which  thronging  cares  annoy — not  swifter  wheel 
The  flashes  of  its  torture  and  unrest 

Out  of  the  dizzy  eyes — than  Maia's  son 

All  that  he  did  devise  hath  featly  done. 


And  through  the  tortoise's  hard  strong  skin 

At  proper  distances  small  holes  he  made, 

And  fastened  the  cut  stems  of  reeds  within. 

And  with  a  piece  of  leather  overlaid 
The  open  space  and  fixed  the  cubits  in. 
Fitting  the  bridge  to  both,  and  stretched  o'er  all 
Syhiphonious  cords  of  sheep-gut  rhythmical. 

35" 


358 


TRANSLATIONS. 


When  he  had  wrought  the  lovely  instrument, 
He  tried  the  chords,  and  made  division  meet 

Preluding  with  the  plectrum,  and  there  went 
Up  from  beneath  his  hand  a  tumult  sweet 

Of  mighty  sounds,  and  from  liis  lips  he  sent 
A  strain  of  unpremeditated  wit 

Joyous  and  wild  and  wanton — such  you  may 

Hear  among  revellers  on  a  holiday. 

X. 

He  sung  how  Jove  and  May  of  the  bright  sandal 
Dallied  in  love  not  quite  legitimate ; 

And  his  own  birth,  still  scoffing  at  the  scandal; 
And  naming  his  own  name,  did  celebrate ; 

His  mother's  cave  and  servant  maid  she  planned  all 
In  plastic  verse,  her  household  stuff  and  state, 

Perennial  pot,  trippet,  and  brazen  pan — 

But  singing  he  conceived  another  plan. 

XI. 

Seized  with  a  sudden  fancy  for  fresh  meat, 

He  in  his  sacred  crib  deposited 
The  hollow  lyre,  and  from  the  cavern  sweet 

Rushed  with  great  leaps  up  to  the  mountain's 
head, 
Revolving  in  his  mind  some  subtle  feat 
Of  thievish  craft,  such  as  a  swindler  might 
Devise  in  the  lone  season  of  dun  night. 

xir. 

Lo !  the  great  Sun  under  the  ocean's  bed  has 
Driven  steeds  and  chariot — the  child  meanwhile 
strode 

O'er  the  Pierian  mountains  clothed  in  shadows, 
Where  the  immortal  oxen  of  the' God 

Are  pasturing  in  the  flowering  unmown  meadows, 
And  safely  stalled  in  a  remote  abode — 

The  archer  Argicidc,  elate  and  proud. 

Prove  fifty  from  the  herd,  lowing  aloud. 

XIII. 

He  drove  them  wandering  o'er  the  sandy  way, 
But,  being  ever  mindful  of  his  craft. 

Backward  and  forward  drove  he  them  astray, 
So  that  the  tracks,  which  seemed  before,  were  aft : 

His  sandals  then  he  threw  to  the  ocean  spray. 
And  for  each  foot  he  wrought  a  kind  of  raft 

Of  tamarisk,  and  tamarisk-like  sprigs. 

And  bound  them  in  a  lump  with  withy  twigs. 

XIV. 

And  on  his  feet  he  tied  these  sandals  light. 

The  trail  of  whose  wide  leaves  might  not  betray 

His  track ;  and  then,  a  self-sufficing  wight. 
Like  a  man  hastening  on  some  distant  way, 

He  from  Picria's  mountain  bent  his  flight ; 

But  an  old  man  perceived  the  infant  pass    [grass. 

Down   green   Onchestus,   heaped  like  beds  with 

xy. 

The  old  man  stood  dressing  his  sunny  vine : 
"  Halloo !  old  fellow  with  the  crooked  shoulder 

You  grub  those  stumps  7  Before  they  will  bear  wine 
Methinks  even  you  must  grow  a  little  older : 

Attend,  I  pray,  to  this  advice  of  mine, 

As  you  would  'scape  what  might  appal  a  bolder — 

Seeing,  see  not — and  hearing,  hear  not — and — 

If  you  have  understanding — understand." 


So  saying,  Hermes  roused  the  oxen  vast ; 

O'er  shadowy  mountain  and  resounding  dell, 
And  flower-paven  plains,  great  Hermes  past ; 

Till  the  black  night  divine,  which  favouring  fell 
Around  his  steps,  grew  gray,  and  morning  fast 

Wakened  the  world  to  work,  and  from  her  cell, 
Sea-strewn,  the  Pallantean  Moon  sublime 
Into  her  watch-tower  just  began  to  climb. 

XVII. 

Now  to  Alpheus  he  had  driven  all 

The  broad  foreheaded  oxen  of  the  Sun; 

They  came  unwearied  to  the  lofty  stall 
And  to  the  water-troughs  wliich  ever  run 

Through  the  fresh  fields — and  when  with  rushgrass 
Lotus  and  all  sweet  herbage,  every  one         [tall 

Had  pastured  been,  the  Great  God  made  them  move 

Towards  the  stall  in  a  collected  drove. 

XTIII. 

A  mighty  pile  of  wood  the  God  then  heaped, 
And  having  soon  conceived  the  mystery 

Of  fire,  from  two  smooth  laurel  branches  stript 
The  bark,  and  rubbed  them  inhis palms, — onhigh 

Suddenly  forth  the  burning  vapour  leapt. 
And  the  divine  child  saw  delightedly — 

Mercui-y  first  found  out  for  human  weal 

Tinder-box,  matches,  fire-irons,  ffint,  and  steel. 

XIX. 

And  fine  dry  logs  and  roots  innumerous 
He  gathered  in  a  delve  upon  the  ground — 

And  kindled  them — and  instantaneous      [around  : 
The  strength  of  the  fierce  flame  was  breathed 

And  whilst  the  might  of  glorious  Vulcan  thus 
Wrapt  the  great  pile  with  glare  and  roaring  sound, 

Hermes  dragged  forth  two  heifers,  lowing  loud, 

Close  to  the  fire — such  might  was  in  the  God. 

XX. 

And  on  the  earth  upon  their  backs  he  threw 
The  panting  beasts,  and  rolled  them  o'er  and  o'er. 

And  bored  their  lives  out.     Without  more  ado 
He  cut  up  fat  and  flesh,  and  down  before 

The  fire  on  spits  of  wood  he  placed  the  two, 
Toasting  their  flesh  and  ribs,  and  all  the  gore 

Pursed  in  the  bowels ;  and  while  this  was  done 

He  stretched  their  hides  over  a  craggy  stone. 

XXI. 

We  mortals  let  an  ox  grow  old,  and  then 
Cut  it  up  after  long  consideration, — 

But  joyous-minded  Hermes  from  the  glen 
Drew  the  fat  spoils  to  the  more  open  station 

Of  a  flat  smooth  space,  and  portioned  them ;  and 
He  had  by  lot  assigned  to  each  a  ration    [when 

Of  the  twelve  Gods,  his  mind  became  aware 

Of  all  the  joys  wliich  in  religion  are. 

XXII. 

For  the  sweet  savour  of  the  roasted  meat 

Tempted  him,  though  immortal.     Nathelesse 

He  checked  his  haughty  will  and  did  not  eat, 
Though  what  it  cost  him  words  can  scarce  express. 

And  every  wish  to  put  such  morsels  sweet 
Down  his  most  sacred  throat,  he  did  repress ; 

But  soon  within  the  lofty  portalJed  stall 

He  placed  the  fat  and  flesh  and  bones  and  all. 


HYMN     TO    MERCURY. 


359 


xxm. 

And  every  trace  of  the  fresh  ])utchcry 

Ami  cookiiiji,  the  Uod  soon  made  disappear, 

As  if  it  all  had  vanished  tiirough  the  sky  ;  [iiair, — 
He  burned  the   hoofs  and   horns  and  head  and 

The  insatiate  fire  devoured  them  hungrily ; 
And  when  he  saw  that  every  thing  was  clear, 

He  quenehed  the  coals  and  trampled  the  black  dust, 

And  in  the  stream  his  bloody  sandals  tossed. 

XXIV. 

All  night  he  worked  in  the  serene  moonshine — • 
But  when  the  light  of  day  was  spread  abroad 

He  sought  his  natal  mountain-peaks  divine. 
On  his  long  wandering,  neither  man  nor  god 

Had  met  him,  since  he  killed  Apollo's  kine, 
Nor  house-dog  had  barked  at  him  on  his  road ; 

Now  he  obliquely  through  the  keyhole  passed, 

Like  a  thin  mist,  or  an  autumnal'blast. 

XXT. 

Right  through  the  temple  of  the  spacious  cave 
He  went  with  soft  light  feet — as  if  his  tread 

Fell  not  on  earth;  no  sound  their  falling  gave  ; 
Then  to  his  cradle  he  crept  quick,  and  spread 

The  swaddling  clothes  about  him ;  and  the  knave 
Lay  playing  with  the  covering  of  the  bed, 

With  his  left  hand  about  his  knees — the  right 

Held  his  beloved  tortoise-lyre  tight. 

XXTI. 

There  he  lay  innocent  as  a  new-born  child, 
As  gossips  say ;  but,  tliough  he  was  a  god, 

The  goddess,  his  fair  mother,  unbeguiled 
Knew  all  that  he  had  done,  being  abroad; 

"  Whence  come  you,  and  from  what  adventure  wild, 
You  cunning  rogue,  and  where  have  you  abode 

All  the  long  night,  clothed  in  your  impudence] 

What  have  you  done  since  you  departed  hence  1 

XXVII. 

"Apollo  soon  will  pass  within  this  gate, 
And  bind  your  tender  body  in  a  chain 

Inextricably  tight,  and  fast  as  fate, 

Unless  you  can  delude  the  God  again, 

Even  when  within  his  arms — ah,  runagate  ! 
A  pretty  torment  both  for  gods  and  men 

Your  father  made  when  he  made  you  !" — "  Dear 
mother," 

Replied  sly  Hermes,  «  wherefore  scold  and  bother] 

XXVIII. 

"  As  if  I  were  like  other  babes  as  old. 

And  understood  nothing  of  what  is  what ; 

And  cared  at  all  to  hear  my  mother  scold. 

I  in  my  subtle  brain  a  scheme  have  got,  [rolled. 

Which,  whilst  the  sacred  stars  round  Heaven  are 
Will  profit  you  and  me — nor  shall  our  lot 

Be  as  you  counsel,  without  gifts  or  food. 

To  spend  our  lives  in  this  obscure  abode. 

XXIX. 

"But  we  will  leave  this  shadow  peopled  cave, 
And  live  among  the  Gods,  and  pass  each  day 

In  high  communion,  sharing  what  they  have 
Of  profuse  wealth  and  unexhausted  prey 

And,  from  the  portion  which  my  father  gave 
To  Phoebus,  I  will  snatch  my  share  away, 

Which  if  my  father  will  not — nathclesse  I, 

Who  am  the  king  of  robbers,  can  but  try. 


"And,  if  liatona's  son  should  find  me  out, 
I'll  counterininc  him  by  a  deeper  plan  ; 

I'll  pierce  the  Pythian  temple  walls,  though  stout, 
And  sack  the  fane  of  every  thing  I  can — 

Caldrons  and  tripods  of  great  worth  no  doubt. 
Each  golden  cup  and  polished  brazen  pan, 

All  the  wrought  tapestries  and  garments  gay." — 

So  they  together  talked  ; — meanwhile  the  Day 

XXXI. 

Ethereal  born,  arose  out  of  the  flood 

Of  flowing  Ocean,  bearing  light  to  men. 

Apollo  jiassed  toward  the  sacred  wood. 

Which  from  the  iinnost  depths  of  its  green  glen 

Echoes  the  voice  of  Neptune, — and  there  stood 
On  the  same  spot  in  green  Onchestus  then 

That  same  old  animal,  the  vine-drcsscr. 

Who  was  emploj'ed  hedging  his  vineyard  there. 

XXXII. 

Latona's  glorious  Son  began  : — "  I  pray 
Tell,  ancient  hedger  of  Onchestus  gi'een, 

Whether  a  drove  of  kine  has  past  this  way. 

All  heifers  with  crooked  horns  ]  for  they  have  been 

Stolen  from  the  herd  in  high  Pieria, 

Where  a  black  bull  was  fed  apart,  between 

Two  woody  mountains  in  a  neighbouring  glen. 

And  four  fierce  dogs  watched  there,  unanimous  as 
men. 

XXXIIT. 

"  And,  what  is  strange,  the  author  of  this  thefl 
Has  stolen  the  fatted  heifers  every  one, 

But  the  four  dogs  and  the  black  bull  are  left : — 
Stolen  they  were  last  night  at  set  of  sun. 

Of  their  soft  beds  and  their  sweet  food  bereft — ■ 
Now  tell  me,  man  born  ere  the  world  begun, 

Have  you  seen  any  one  pass  with  the  cows]" — 

To  whom  the  man  of  overhanging  brows, — 

XXXIT. 

"  My  friend,  it  would  require  no  common  skill 
Justly  to  speak  of  every  thing  I  see  ; 

On  various  purposes  of  good  or  ill 

Many  pass  by  my  vineyard, — and  to  me 

'Tis  difficult  to  know  the  invisible  [be  : — 

Thoughts,  which  -in  all  those  many  minds  may 

Thus  much  alone  I  certainly  can  say, 

I  tilled  these  vines  till  the  declme  of  day, 

XXXT. 

"  And  then  I  thought  I  saw,  but  dare  not  speak 

With  certainty  of  such  a  wondrous  thing, 
A  child  who  could  not  have  been  born  a  week, 

Those  fair-horned  cattle  closely  following, 
And  in  his  hand  he  held  a  polished  stick : 

And,  as  on  purpose,  he  walked  wavering 
From  one  side  to  the  other  of  the  road. 
And  with  his  face  opposed  the  steps  he  trod." 

xxxyr. 
Apollo,  hearing  this,  passed  quickly  on — 

No  winged  omen  could  have  shown  more  clear 
That  the  deceiver  was  his  father's  son. 

So  the  God  wraps  a  purple  atmosphere 
Around  his  shoulders,  and  like  fire  is  gone 

To  famous  Pylos,  seeking  his  kine  there. 
And  found  their  track  and  his,  yet  hardly  cold. 
And  cried — "  What  wonder  do  mine  eyes  behold  ! 


360 


TRANSLATIONS. 


XXXVII. 

"  Here  are  the  footsteps  ofthe  horned  herJ 

Turned  back  toward  their  fields  of  asphodel; — 

But  these !  are  not  the  tracks  of  beast  or  bird, 
Gray  woh',  or  bear,  or  lion  of  the  dell, 

Or  maned  Centaur — sand  was  never  stirred 
By  man  or  woman  thus!     Inexplicable  ! 

Who  with  unwearied  feet  could  e'er  impress 

The  sand  with  such  enormous  vestiges ! 

XXXVIII. 

"That  was  most  strange, — but  this  is  stranger  still!" 
Thus  having  said,  Phcebus  impetuously 

Sought  high  Cyllenc's  forest-cinctured  hill, 
And  the  deep  cavern  where  dark  shadows  lie, 

And  where  the  ambrosial  nymjih  with  happy  will 
Bore  the  Saturnian's  love-child,  Mercury — 

And  a  delighted  odour  from  the  dew 

Of  the  hill  pastures,  at  his  coming,  flew. 

XXXIX. 

And  Phoebus  scooped  under  the  craggy  roof 
Arched  over  the  dark  cavern  : — •Maia's  child 

Perceived  that  he  came  angry,  far  aloof. 

About  the  cows  of  which  he  had  been  beguiled, 

And  over  him  the  fine  and  fragrant  woof 

Of  his  ambrosial  swaddling-clothes  he  piled — 

As  among  firebrands  lies  a  burning  spark 

Covered,  beneath  the  ashes  cold  and  dark. 

XL. 

There,  like  an  infant  who  had  sucked  his  fill. 
And  now  was  newly  washed  and  put  to  bed, 

Awake,  but  courting  sleep  with  weary  will 

And  gathered  in  a  lump  hands,  feet,  and  head, 

He  lay,  and  his  beloved  tortoise  still 

He  grasped  and  held  under  his  shoulder-blade  ; 

Phcsbus  the  lovely  mountain  goddess  knew, 

Not  less  her  subtle,  swindling  baby,  who 

XLT. 

Lay  swathed  in  his  sly  wiles.  Round  every  crook 
Of  the  ample  cavern,  for  his  kine  Apollo 

Looked  sharp  ;  and  when  he  saw  them  not,  he  took 
The  glittering  key,  and  ojiencd  three  great  hollow 

Recesses  in  the  rock — where  many  a  nook 

Was  filled  with  the  sweet  food  innnortals  swallow, 

And  mighty  heaps  of  silver  and  of  gold 

Were  piled  within — a  wonder  to  behold ! 

xiir. 

And  white  and  silver  robes,  all  overwrought 
With  cunning  workmanship  of  tracery  sweet — 

Except  among  tlie  Gods  there  can  be  nought 
In  the  wide  world  to  be  compared  with  it 

Latona's  offspring,  after  having  sought 
His  herds  in  every  corner,  thus  did  greet 

Great  Hermes : — "  Little  cradled  rogue,  declare, 

Of  my  illustrious  heifers,  where  they  are  ! 

XLIII. 

«  Speak  quickly !  or  a  quarrel  between  us 
Must  rise,  and  the  event  will  be,  that  I 

Shall  haul  you  into  dismal  Tartarus, 
In  fiery  gloom  to  dwell  eternally  ! 

Nor  shall  your  father  nor  your  mother  loose 
The  bars  of  that  black  dungeon — utterly 

You  shall  be  cast  out  from  the  light  of  day, 

To  rule  the  ghosts  of  men,  unblcst  as  they." 


To  whom  thus  Hermes  slighly  answered  : — "  Son 
Of  great  Latona,  what  a  speech  is  this  1 

Why  come  you  here  to  ask  me  what  is  done 
With  the  wild  oxen  which  it  seems  you  miss  1 

I  have  not  seen  them,  nor  from  any  one 
Have  heard  a  word  of  the  whole  business  ; 

If  you  should  promise  an  immense  reward, 

I  could  not  tell  more  than  you  now  have  hoard. 

XLV. 

«  An  ox-slealer  should  he  both  tall  and  strong. 
And  I  am  but  a  little  new-born  thing. 

Who,  yet  at  least,  can  think  of  nothing  wrong  : — 
My  business  is  to  suck,  and  sleep,  and  fling 

The  cradle-clothes  about  me  all  day  long. — 
Or,  half  asleep,  hear  my  sweet  mother  sing, 

And  to  be  washed  in  water  clean  and  warm, 

And  hushed  and  kissed  and  kept  secure  from  harm. 

XLTI. 

"  Oh,  let  not  e'er  this  quarrel  be  averred  ! 

The  astounded  Gods  would  laugh  at  you,  if  e'er 
You  should  allege  a  story  so  absurd, 

As  that  a  new-born  inflmt  forth  could  fare 
Out  of  his  home  after  a  savage  herd. 

I  was  born  yesterday — my  small  feet  are 
Too  tender  for  the  roads  so  hard  and  rough : — 
And  if  you  think  that  this  is  not  enough, 

XLVII. 

"  I  swear  a  great  oath,  by  my  father's  head. 
That  I  stole  not  your  cows,  and  that  I  know 

Of  no  one  else  who  might,  or  could,  or  did. — 
Whatever  things  cows  are  I  do  not  know, 

For  I  have  only  heard  the  name." — This  said. 
He  winked  as  fast  as  could  be,  and  his  brow 

Was  wrinkled,  and  a  whistle  loud  gave  he. 

Like  one  who  hears  some  strange  absurdity. 

XLVIII. 

Apollo  gently  smiled  and  said: — "Ay,  ay, — 
You  cunning  little  rascal,  you  will  bore 

Many  a  rich  man's  house,  and  your  array 
Of  thieves  will  lay  their  siege  before  his  door. 

Silent  as  nittht,  in  night ;  and  many  a  day 

In  the  wild  glens  rough  shepherds  will  deplore 

That  you  or  yours,  having  an  appetite, 

Met  with  their  cattle,  comrade  of  the  night ! 


"  And  this  among  the  Gods  shall  be  your  gift, 
To  be  considered  as  the  lord  of  tho.se       [lift  ; — 

Who  swindle,  house-break,  sheep-steal,  and  shop- 
But  now  if  you  would  not  j-our  last  sleep  doze, 

Crawl  out!" — Thus  saying,  Phccbus  did  uplift 
The  subtle  infant  in  his  swaddling-clothes, 

And  in  his  arms,  according  to  his  wont, 

A  scheme  devised  the  illustrious  Argiphont. 


And  sneezed  and  shuddered — Phoebus  on  the  grass 
Him  threw,  and  whilst  all  that  he  had  designed 

He  did  perform — eager  although  to  pass, 
Apollo  darted  from  his  mighty  mind     • 

Towai'ds  the  siditle  babe  the  following  scoff; 

"  Do  not  imagine  this  will  get  you  off, 


HYMN    TO    MERCURY. 


361 


"You  littlo  swaddled  child  of  Jove  and  May!" 
And  seized  him  : — "  By  this  omen  I  shall  trace 

My  noMe  herds,  and  you  shall  lead  the  way." — 
Cyllenian  Hermes  from  the  grassy  place, 

Like  one  in  earnest  haste  to  get  away, 

Rose,  and  with  hands  lifted  towards  his  face, 

Round  both  his  ears  up  from  his  shoulders  drew 

His  swaddling  clothes,  and — "  What  mean  you  to  do 

LII. 

"With  mc,  you  unkind  Godl" — said  Mercury: 
"  Is  it  about  these  cows  you  tcaze  mc  sol 

I  wish  the  race  of  cows  were  perished  ! — I 
Stole  not  your  cows — I  do  not  even  know 

What  things  cows  arc.     Alas!  I  well  may  sigh, 
That,  since  I  came  into  this  world  of  wo, 

I  should  have  ever  heard  the  name  of  one — 

But  I  appeal  to  the  Saturnian's  throne." 

LTII. 

Thus  Phoebus  and  the  vagrant  Mercury 
Talked  without  coming  to  an  explanation. 

With  adverse  purpose.     As  for  Phoebus,  he 
Sought  not  revenge,  but  only  information, 

And  Hermes  tried  with  lies  and  roguery 
To  cheat  Apollo. — But  when  no  evasion 

Served — for  the  cunnuig  one  his  match  had  found — 

He  paced  on  first  over  the  sandy  ground. 

LIT. 

He  of  the  Silver  Bow,  the  child  of  Jove, 
Followed  behind,  till  to  their  heavenly  Sire 

Came  both  his  children — beautiful  as  Love, 
And  from  his  equal  balance  did  require 

A  judgment  in  the  cause  wherein  they  strove. 

O'er  odorous  Olympus  and  its  snows 

A  murmuring  tumult  as  they  came  arose, — 

LV. 

And  from  the  folded  depths  of  the  great  Hill, 
While  Hermes  and  Apollo  reverent  stood 

Before  Jove's  throne,  the  indestructible 
Immortals  rushed  in  mighty  multitude ; 

And,  whilst  their  seats  in  order  due  they  fill. 
The  lofty  Thunderer  in  a  careless  mood 

To  Phoebus  said: — "Whence  drive  you  this  sweet 

This  herald-baby,  born  but  yesterday  ! —       [prey 

LVI. 

"A  most  important  subject,  trifler,  this 

To  lay  before  the  Gods! — "Nay,  father,  nay, 
W^hcn  you  have  understood  the  business. 

Say  not  that  I  alone  am  fond  of  prey. 
I  found  this  little  !)oy  in  a  recess 

Under  Cyllcnc's  mountains  far  away — 
A  manifest  and  most  apparent  thief, 
A  scandal-monger  beyond  all  belief. 

LTir. 
"I  never  saw  his  like  either  in  heaven 

Or  upon  earth  for  knavery  or  craft : — 
Out  of  the  field  my  cattle  yester  even, 

By  the  low  shore  on  which  the  loud  sea  laughed, 
He  right  down  to  the  river-ford  had  driven ; 

And  mere  astonishment  would  make  you  daft 
To  see  the  double  kind  of  footsteps  strange 
He  has  impressed  wherever  he  did  range. 
46 


Lnii. 

«  The  cattle's  track  on  the  black  dust  full  well 

Is  evident,  as  if  they  went  towards 
The  place  from  which  Ihcy  came — that  asphodel 

Meadow,  in  which  I  feed  my  many  herds ; ' 
His  steps  were  most  incomprehensible — 

I  know  not  how  I  can  describe  in  words 
Those  tracks — he  could  have  gone  along  the  sands 
Neither  upon  his  feet  nor  on  his  hands ; — • 

LIX. 

"  He  must  have  had  some  other  stranger  mode 
Of  moving  on  :  those  vestiges  immense, 

Far  as  I  traced  them  on  the  sandy  road, 

Seemed  like  the  trail  of  oak-toppings : — but  thence 

No  mark  nor  track  denoting  where  they  trod 
The  hard  ground  gave : — but,  working  at  his  fence, 

A  mortal  hedger  saw  him  as  he  past 

To  Pylos,  with  the  cows,  in  fiery  haste. 

LX. 

"  I  found  that  in  the  dark  he  quietly 

Had  sacrificed  some  cows,  and  before  light 

Had  thrown  the  ashes  all  dispersedly 

About  the  road — then,  still  as  gloomy  night, 

Had  crept  into  his  cradle,  either  eye 

Rubbing,  and  cogitating  some  new  sleight. 

No  eagle  could  have  seen  him  as  he  lay 

Hid  in  his  cavern  from  the  peering  day. 

ixi. 

"  I  taxed  him  with  the  fiict,  when  he  averred 
Most  solemnly  that  he  did  neither  see 

Nor  even  had  in  any  manner  heard 

Of  my  lost  cows,  whatever  things  cows  be ; 

Nor  could  ho  tell,  though  offered  a  reward. 
Not  even  who  could  tell  of  them  to  me." 

So  speaking,  Phccbus  sate ;  and  Hermes  then 

Addressed  the  Supreme  Lord  of  Gods  and  Men : 

LXII. 

"  Great  Father,  you  know  clearly  beforehand 
That  all  which  I  shall  say  to  you  is  sooth ; 

I  am  a  most  veracious  person,  and 
Totally  unacquahited  with  untruth. 

At  sunrise  Phoebus  came,  but  with  no  band 
Of  Gods  to  bear  him  witness,  in  great  wrath 

To  my  abode,  seeking  his  heifers  there. 

And  saying  that  I  must  show  him  where  they  are, 

LXIII. 

"  Or  he  would  hurl  me  down  the  dark  abyss. 

I  know  that  every  Apollonian  limb 
Is  clothed  with  speed  and  might  and  manliness. 

As  a  green  bank  with  flowers — but  unlike  him 
I  was  born  j'csterday,  and  3'ou  may  guess 

He  well  knew  this  when  he  indulged  the  whim 
Of  bullying  a  poor  little  new-born  thing 
That  slept,  and  never  thought  of  cow-driving. 

LXIV. 

"Am  I  like  a  strong  fellow  who  steals  kineT 
Believe  me,  dearest  Father,  such  you  are. 

This  driving  of  the  herds  is  none  of  mine  ; 
Across  mj'  threshold  did  I  wander  ne'er. 

So  may  I  thrive  !  I  reverence  the  divine 

Sun  and  the  Gods,  and  I  love  you,  and  care 

Even  for  this  hard  accuser — who  must  know 

I  am  as  innocent  as  they  or  you. 

■in  


362 


TRANSLATIONS. 


"  I  swear  by  these  most  gloriously-wrought  portals — 
(It  is,  you  will  allow,  an  oath  of  might) 

Through  which  the  multitude  of  the  Immortals 
Pass  and  repass  for  ever,  day  and  night, 

Devising  schemes  for  tlie  allairs  of  mortals — 
That  I  am  guiltless ;  and  I  will  reijuite 

Although  mine  enemy  be  great  and  strong, 

His  cruel  threat — do  thou  defend  the  young !" 

LXVI. 

So  speaking,  the  Cyllenian  Argiphont 

Winked,  as  if  now  his  adversary  was  fitted: — 

And  Jupiter,  according  to  his  wont, 

Laughed  heartily  to  hear  the  subtle-witted 

Infant  give  such  a  plausible  account, 
And  every  word  a  he.     But  he  remitted 

Judgment  at  present — and  his  exhortation 

Was,  to  compose  the  affair  by  arbitration. 

LXTII. 

And  they  by  mighty  Jupiter  were  bidden 
To  go  forth  with  a  single  purpose  both, 

Neither  the  other  cliiding  nor  yet  chidden  : 
And  Mercury  with  innocence  and  truth 

To  lead  the  way,  and  show  where  he  had  hidden 
The  mighty  heifers. — Hermes,  nothing  loth, 

Obeyed  the  jEgis-bearer's  will — for  he 

Is  able  to  persuade  all  easily. 

IXTIII. 

These  lovely  children  of  Heaven's  highest  Lord 
Hastened  to  Pylos  and  the  pastures  wide 

And  lofty  stalls  by  the  Alphean  ford, 

Where  wealth  in  the  mute  night  is  multiplied 

With  silent  growth.   Whilst  Hermes  drove  the  herd 
Out  of  the  stony  cavern,  Phoebus  spied 

The  hides  of  those  the  little  babe  had  slain, 

Stretched  on  the  precipice  above  the  plam. 

IXIX. 

"  How  was  it  possible,"  then  Phcebus  said, 
"  That  you,  a  httle  child,  bom  yesterday, 

A  thing  on  mother's  milk  and  kisses  fed. 
Could  two  prodigious  heifers  ever  flay  1 

E'en  I  myself  may  well  hereafter  dread 
Your  prowess,  offspring  of  Cyllenian  May, 

When  you  grow  strong  and  tall." — He  spoke,  and 

StiiT  withy  bands  the  infant's  wrists  around,  [bound 

LXX. 

He  might  as  well  have  bound  the  oxen  wild ; 

The  withy  bands,  though  starkly  interknit, 
Fell  at  the  feet  of  the  innnortal  child. 

Loosened  by  some  device  of  his  quick  wit. 
Phoebus  perceived  himself  again  beguiled,        [pit, 
.  And  stared — while  Hermes  sought  some  hole  or 
Looking  askance  and  winking  fast  as  thought. 
Where  he  might  hide  himself,  and  not  be  caught. 

LXXI. 

Sudden  he  changed  his  plan,  and  with  strange  skill 
Subdued  the  strong  Latonian,  by  the  might 

Of  winning  music,  to  his  mightier  will; 

His  left  hand  held  the  lyre,  and  in  his  right 

The  plectrum  struck  the  chords — unconquerable 
Up  from  beneath  his  hand  in  circling  flight 

The  gathering  music  rose — and  sweet  as  Love 

The  penetrating  notes  did  live  and  move 


XXXII. 

Within  the  heart  of  great  Apollo — he 

Listened  with  all  his  soul,  and  laughed  for  pleasure. 

Close  to  his  side  stood  harping  fearlessly 
The  unabashed  boy  ;  and  to  the  measure 

Of  the  sweet  lyre,  there  followed  loud  and  free 
His  joyous  voice  ;  for  he  unlocked  the  treasure 

Of  his  deep  song,  illustrating  the  birth 

Of  the  bright  Gods  and  the  dark  desert  Earth : 

LXXIII. 

And  how  to  the  Immortals  every  one 
A  portion  was  assigned  of  all  tliat  is  ; 

But  chief  Mnemosyne  did  Maia's  son 

Clothe  in  the  light  of  his  loud  melodies; — 

And,  as  each  God  was  born  or  had  begun. 
He  in  their  order  due  and  fit  degrees 

Sung  of  his  birth  and  being — and  did  move 

Apollo  to  unutterable  love. 

LX:SlY. 

These  words  were  winged  with  his  swift  delight : 
"  You  heifer-stealing  schemer,  well  do  you 

Deserve  that  fifty  oxen  should  requite 

Such  minstrelsies  as  I  have  heard  even  now. 

Comrade  of  feasts,  little  contriving  wight. 
One  of  your  secrets  I  would  gladly  know. 

Whether  the  glorious  power  you  now  show  forth 

Was  folded  up  within  you  at  your  birth, 

tXXT. 

"  Or  whether  mortal  taught  or  God  inspired 
The  power  of  unpremeditated  song  1 

Many  divincst  sounds  have  I  admired 

The  Olympian  Gods  and  mortal  men  among ; 

But  such  a  strain  of  wondrous,  strange,  untired. 
And  soul-awakening  music,  sweet  and  strong 

Yet  did  I  never  hear  except  from  thee, 

Offspring  of  May,  impostor  Mercurj' ! 

Lxxvr. 

«  What  Muse,  what  skill,  what  unimagined  use, 
What  exercise  of  subtlest  art,  has  given  [choose 

Thy  songs  such  power  ? — for  those  who  hear  may 
From  three,  the  choicest  of  the  gifts  of  Heaven, 

Delight,  and  love,  and  sleep,  sweet  sleep,  whose  dews 
Are  sweeter  than  the  balmy  tears  of  even  : — ■ 

And  I,  who  speak  this  praise,  am  that  Apollo 

Wliom  the  Olympian  Muses  ever  follow : 

LXXVII. 

"  And  their  dehght  is  dance,  and  the  blithe  noise 

Of  song  and  everflowing  poesy  ; 
And  sweet,  even  as  desire,  the  liquid  voice 

Of  ])ipes,  that  fills  the  clear  air  thrillingly  ; 
But  never  did  my  inmost  soul  rejoice 

In  this  dear  work  of  youthful  revelry, 
As  now  I  wonder  at  thee,  son  of  Jove ; 
Thy  harpings  and  thy  song  are  soft  as  love. 

LXXVIII. 

«  Now  since  thou  hast,  although  so  very  small. 
Science  of  arts  so  glorious,  thus  I  swear, — 

And  let  this  cornel  javelin,  keen  and  tall. 

Witness  between  us  what  I  promise  here, — i 

That  I  will  lead  thee  to  the  Olympian  Hall, 
Honoured  and  mighty,  with  thy  mother  dear, 

And  many  glorious  gifts  in  joy  will  give  thee. 

And  even  at  the  end  will  ne'er  deceive  thee." 


HYMN    TO    MERCURY. 


563 


LXXIX. 

To  whom  thus  Mercury  with  prudent  speech : — 
"  Wisely  hast  thou  inciuired  of  my  skill : 

I  envy  thee  no  thing  I  know  to  teach 

Even  this  day : — for  both  in  word  and  will 

I  would  be  gentle  with  thee ;  thou  canst  reach 
All  things  in  thy  wise  spirit,  and  thy  sill 

Is  highest  in  heaven  among  the  sons  of  Jove, 

Who  loves  thee  in  the  fulness  of  his  love. 

LXXX. 

«  The  Counsellor  Supreme  has  given  to  thee 

Divinest  gifts,  out  of  the  amplitude 
Of  his  profuse  exhaustless  treasury  ; 

By  thee,  'tis  said,  the  depths  are  understood 
Of  his  tar  voice;  by  thee  the  mystery 

Of  all  oracular  fates, — and  the  dread  mood 
Of  the  diviner  is  breathed  up,  even  I — 
A  child — perceive  thy  might  and  majesty — 

LXXXI. 

"  Thou  canst  seek  out  and  compass  all  that  wit 
Can  find  or  teach ; — yet  since  thou  wilt,  come, 
take 

The  lyre — be  mine  the  glorj'  giving  it — 

Strike  the  sweet  chords,  and  sing  aloud,  and  wake 

Thy  joyous  pleasure  out  of  many  a  fit 

Of  tranced  sound — and  with  fleet  fingers  make 

Thy  liquid-voiced  comrade  talk  with  thee. 

It  can  talk  measured  music  eloquently. 

IXXXII. 

"  Then  bear  it  boldly  to  the  revel  loud, 

Love-wakening  dance,  or  feast  of  solemn  state, 

A  joy  by  night  or  day — for  those  endowed 
W^ith  art  and  wisdom  who  interrogate 

It  teaches,  babbling  in  delightful  mood, 

All  tilings  which  make  the  spirit  most  elate, 

Soothing  the  mind  with  sweet  familiar  play, 

Chasing  the  heavy  shadows  of  dismay. 

IXXXIII. 

«  To  those  who  are  unskilled  in  its  sweet  tongue. 

Though  they  should  question  most  impetuously 
Its  hidden  soul,  it  gossips  something  wrong — • 

Some  senseless  and  impertinent  reply. 
But  thou  who  art  as  wise  as  thou  art  strong. 

Can  compass  all  that  thou  dcsirest.     I 
Present  thee  with  this  music-flowing  shell, 
Knowing  thou  canst  interrogate  it  well. 

ixxxir. 
"  And  let  us  two  henceforth  together  feed, 

On  this  green  mountain  slope  and  pastoral  plain. 
The  herds  in  litigation — they  will  breed 

Quickly  enough  to  recompense  our  pain, 
If  to  the  bulls  and  cows  we  take  good  heed ; — 

And  thou,  though  somewhat  overfond  of  gain. 
Grudge  mc  not  half  the  profit." — Having  spoke, 
The  shell  he  profiered,  and  Apollo  took. 

IXXXT. 

And  gave  him  in  return  the  glittering  lash, 
Installing  him  as  herdsman ; — from  the  look 

Of  Mercury  then  laughed  a  joyous  flash  ; 
And  then  Apollo  with  the  plectnmi  strook 

The  chords,  and  from  beneath  his  hands  a  crash 
Of  mighty  sounds  rushed  up,  whose  music  shook 

The  soul  with  sweetness,  and  like  an  adept 

His  sweeter  voice  a  just  accordance  kept. 


LXXXVI. 

The  herd  went  wandering  o'er  the  divine  mead, 
Whilst  these  most  beautiful  Sons  of  Jupiter 

Won  their  swift  way  up  to  the  snowy  head 
Of  white  01ymi)us,  with  the  joyous  lyre 

Soothing  their  journey  ;  and  their  fiither  dread 
Gathered  them  both  into  familiar 

Aflection  sweet. — and  then,  and  now,  and  ever, 

Hermes  must  love  Him  of  the  Golden  Quiver, 

LXXXVII. 

To  whom  he  gave  the  lyre  that  sweetly  sounded. 
Which  skilfully  he  held  and  played  thereon. 

He  ])iped  the  while,  and  far  and  wide  rebounded 
The  echo  of  his  pipings ;  every  one 

Of  the  Olympians  sat  with  joy  astounded. 
While  he  conceived  another  piece  of  fun. 

One  of  his  old  tricks — which  the  God  of  Day 

Perceiving,  said  : — "  I  fear  thee.  Son  of  May  ; — 

LXXXVIII. 

"  I  fear  thee  and  thy  sly  chameleon  spirit, 

Lest  thou  should  steal  my  lyre  and  crooked  bow; 

This  glory  and  power  thou  dost  from  Jove  inherit, 
To  teach  all  craft  upon  the  earth  below ; 

Thieves  love  and  worship  thee — it  is  thy  merit 
To  make  all  mortal  business  ebb  and  flow 

By  roguery  : — now,  Hermes,  if  you  dare 

By  sacred  Styx  a  mighty  oath  to  swear, 

LXXXIX. 

"  That  you  will  never  rob  me,  you  will  do 
A  thing  extremely  pleasing  to  my  heart." 

Then  Mercury  sware  by  the  Stygian  dew. 
That  he  would  never  steal  Ws  bow  or  dart. 

Or  lay  his  hands  on  what  to  him  was  due. 
Or  ever  would  employ  his  powerful  art 

Against  his  Pythian  fane.     Then  Phoebus  swore 

There  was  no  God  or  man  whom  he  loved  more. 

xc. 
"  And  I  will  give  thee  as  a  good-will  token 

The  beautiful  wand  of  wealth  and  happiness  ; 
A  perfect  three-leaved  rod  of  gold  unbroken. 

Whose  magic  will  thy  footsteps  ever  bless ; 
And  whatsoever  by  Jove's  voice  is  spoken 

Of  earthly  or  divine  from  its  recess. 
It  like  a  loving  soul  to  thee  will  speak. 
And  more  than  this  do  thou  forbear  to  seek : 

xci. 
"  For,  dearest  child,  the  divinations  high 

Which  thou  rcquirest,  'tis  unlawfiil  ever 
That  thou,  or  any  other  deity. 

Should   understand — and    vain   were    the    en- 
deavour ; 
For  they  arc  hidden  in  Jove's  mind,  and  I, 

In  trust  of  them,  have  sworn  that  I  would  never 
Betray  the  counsels  of  Jove's  inmost  will 
To  any  God — the  oath  was  terrible. 

XCIT. 

"  Then,  golden-wanded  brother,  ask  me  not 
To  speak  the  fates  by  Jupiter  designed; 

But  be  it  mine  to  tell  their  various  lot 

To  the  unnumbered  tribes  of  human  kind. 

Let  good  to  these  and  ill  to  those  be  WTought 
As  I  dispense^ — but  he  who  comes  consigned 

By  voice  and  wings  of  perfect  augury 

To  my  great  shrine,  shall  find  avail  in  me. 


364 


TRANSLATIONS. 


XCIII. 

«  Him  will  I  not  deceive,  but  will  assist ; 

But  he  who  comes  relying  on  such  birds 
As  chatter  vainly,  who  would  strain  and  twist 

The  purpose  of  the  Gods  with  idle  words, 
And  deems  their  knowledge  light  he  shall  have  mist 

His  road — whilst  [  among  my  other  hoards 
His  gifts  deposit.     Yet,  O  son  of  May, 
I  have  another  wondrous  thing  to  say : 

xcir. 

"  There  arc  three  Fates,  three  virgin  Sisters,  who, 
Ki^oicing  in  tlieir  wind-outspeoding  wings, 

Their  heads  with  flour  snowed  over  white  and  new, 
Sit  in  a  vale  round  which  Parnassus  flings 

Its  circling  skirts — from  these  I  have  leari>ed  true 
Vaticinations  of  remotest  things. 

My  father  cared  not.  Whilst  they  search  out  dooms, 

They  sit  apart  and  feed  on  honeycombs. 

xcv. 

"They,  having  eaten  the  fresh  honey,  grow 
Drunk  with  divine  enthusiasm,  and  utter 

With  earnest  willingness  the  truth  they  know; 
But,  if  deprived  of  that  sweet  food,  they  mutter 


All  plausible  delusions; — these  to  you 

I  give; — if  you  in(iuire,  they  will  not  stutter; 
Delight  your  own  soul  with  them : — any  man. 
You  would  instruct  may  profit  if  he  can. 

xcvr. 
"  Take  these  and  the  fierce  oxen,  Maia's  child — 

O'er  many  a  horse  and  toil  enduring  mule, 
O'er  jagged-jawed  lions,  and  the  wild 

White-tuslicd  boars,  o'er  all,  by  field  or  pool, 
Of  cattle  which  the  mighty  Mother  mild 

Nourishes  in  her  bosom,  thou  shalt  rule — 
Thou  dost  alone  the  veil  of  death  uplift — 
Thou  givest  not  — ^yet  this  is  a  great  gift." 

XCTII. 

Thus  King  Apollo  loved  the  child  of  May 

In  truth,  and  Jove  covered  them  with  love  and  joy. 

Hermes  with  Gods  and  men  even  from  that  day 
Mingled,  and  wrought  the  latter  much  annoy, 

And  little  profit,  going  far  astray 

Through  the  dun  night.     Farewell,  delightful 
Boy, 

Of  Jove  and  Maia  sprung, — never  by  me. 

Nor  thou,  nor  other  songs,  shall  unremcmbered  be. 


TO  CASTOR  AND  POLLUX. 

Ye  wild-eyed  Muses,  sing  the  Twins  of  Jove, 
Whom  the  fair-ankled  Leda  mixed  in  love 
With  mighty  Saturn's  heaven-obscuring  Child. 
On  Taygetus,  that  lofty  mountain  wild, 
Brought  forth  in  joy,  mild  Pollux  void  of  blame. 
And  steel-subduing  Castor,  heirs  of  fame. 
These   are  the  Powers  who    earthborn    mortals 

save 
And  ships,  whose  flight  is  swift  along  the  wave. 
When  wintry  tempests  o'er  the  savage  sea 
Are  raging,  and  tlie  sailors  tremblingly 
Call  on  the  Twins  of  Jove  with  prayer  and  vow, 
Gathered  in  fear  upon  the  lofty  prow. 
And  sacrifice  with  snow-white  lambs,  the  wind 
And  the  huge  billow  bursting  close  behind. 
Even  then  beneath  the  weltering  waters  bear 
The  staggering  ship — they  suddenly  appear. 
On  yellow  wings  rushing  athwart  the  sky, 
And  lull  the  blasts  in  mute  tranquillity. 
And  strew  the  waves  on  the  white  ocean's  bed. 
Fair  omen  of  the  voyage ;  from  toil  and  dread. 
The  sailors  rest,  rejoicing  in  the  sight. 
And  plough  the  quiet  sea  in  safe  delight. 


TO  THE  MOON. 

DAURHTEns  of  Jove,  whose  voice  is  melody. 
Muses,  who  know  and  rule  all  minstrelsy  ! 
Sing  the  wide-winged  Moon.     Around  the  earth, 
From  her  immortal  head  in  Heaven  shot  forth. 
Far  light  is  scattered — boundless  glory  springs. 
Where'er  she  spreads  her  many-beaming  wings 
The  lampless  air  glows  round  her  golden  crown. 

But  when  the  Moon  divine  from  Heaven  is  gone 
Under  the  sea,  her  beams  within  abide. 
Till,  bathing  her  bright  limbs  in  Ocean's  tide, 
Clothing  her  form  in  garments  glittering  far, 
And  having  yoked  to  her  immortal  car 
The  beam-invested  steeds,  whose  necks  on  high 
Curve  back,  she  drives  to  a  remoter  sky 
A  western  Crescent,  borne  impetuously. 
Then  is  made  full  the  circle  of  her  light. 
And  as  slie  grows,  her  beams  more  bright  and  bright. 
Are  poured  from  Heaven,  where  she  is  hovering 
A  wonder  and  a  sign  to  mortal  men.  [then, 

The  Son  of  Saturn  with  this  glorious  Power 
Mingled  in  love  and  sleep — to  whom  she  bore, 
Pandeia,  a  bright  maid  of  beauty  rare 
Among  the  Gods,  whose  lives  eternal  are. 

Hail  Queen,  great  Moon,  white-armed  Divinity, 
Fair-haired  and  favourable,  thus  with  thee. 
My  song  beginning,  by  its  music  sweet 
Shall  make  immortal  many  a  glorious  feat 
Of  demigods,  with  lovely  lips,  so  well 
Which  minstrels,  servants  of  the  muses,  tell. 


HYMNS    OF    HOMER. 


365 


TO  THE  SUN. 

Offspbixg  of  Jove,  Calliope,  once  more 

To  the  briglit  8uii,  thy  hymn  of  music  pour; 

Whom  to  the  child  of  star-clad  Heaven  and  Earth 

Euryphaessa,  hirgc-cycd  nymph,  brought  forth; 

Euryphacssa,  the  famed  sister  fair. 

Of  great  Hyperion,  who  to  him  did  bear 

A  race  of  loveliest  children  ;  the  young  Morn, 

Whose  arms  are  like  twin  roses  newly  born, 

The  fair-haired  Moon,  and  the  immortal  Sun, 

Who,  borne  by  heavenly  steeds  his  race  dotii  run 

Unconquerably,  illuming  the  abodes 

Of  mortal  men  and  the  eternal  gods. 

Fiercely  look  forth  his  awe-inspiring  eyes, 
Beneath  his  golden  helmet,  whence  arise 
And  are  shot  forth  afar,  clear  beams  of  light ; 
His  countenance  with  radiant  glory  bright. 
Beneath  his  graceful  locks  far  shines  around, 
And  the  light  vest  with  which  his  limbs  are  bound, 
Of  woof  ethereal,  delicately  twined 
Glows  on  the  stream  of  the  uplifting  wind. 
His  rapid  steeds  soon  bear  him  to  the  west ; 
Where  their  steep  flight  his  hands  divine  arrest, 
And  the  fleet  car  with  yoke  of  gold,  which  he 
Sends  from  bright  heaven  beneath  the  shadowy 
sea. 


TO  THE  EARTH,  MOTHER  OF  ALL. 


0  Ti:viTEKSAL  mother,  who  dost  keep 
From  everlasting  thy  foundations  deep. 
Eldest  of  things,  Great  Earth,  I  sing  of  thee  ; 
All  shapes  that  have  their  dwelling  in  the  sea, 
All  things  that  fly,  or  on  the  ground  divine 
Live,  move,  and  there  are  nourished — these  are 

thine ; 
These  from  thy  wealth  thou  dost  sustain ;  from  thee 
Fair  babes  are  bom,  and  fruits  on  every  tree 
Hang  ripe  and  large,  revered  Divinity ! 


The  life  of  mortal  men  beneath  thy  sway 
Is  held ;  thy  power  both  gives  and  takes  away  ! 
Hupi)y  are  they  whom  thy  mild  favours  nourish, 
All  things  unstinted  round  them  grow  and  flourish. 
For  them,  endures  the  life  sustaining  field 
Its  load  of  harvest,  and  their  cattle  yield 
Large  increase,  and  their  house  with  wealth  is  fdled. 
Such  honoured  dwell  in  cities  fair  and  free. 
The  homes  of  lovely  women,  prosperously ; 
Their  sons  exult  in  youth's  new  budding  gladness, 
And  their  fresh  daughters  free  from  care  or  sadness, 
With  bloom-inwoven  dance  and  happy  song, 
On  the  soft  flowers  the  meadow-grass  among. 
Leap  round  them  sporting — such  delights  by  thee 
Are  given,  rich  Power,  revered  Divinity. 

Mother  of  gods,  thou  wife  of  starry  Heaven, 
Farewell !  be  thou  propitious,  and  be  given 
A  happy  Hfe  for  this  brief  nielody. 
Nor  thou  nor  other  songs  shall  unremembered  be. 


TO  MINERVA. 

I  sixG  the  glorious  Power  with  azure  eyes, 
Athenian  Pallas !  tameless,  chaste,  and  wise, 
Trilogenia,  town-preserving  maid, 
Revered  and  mighty  ;  from  his  awful  head 
Whom  Jove  brought  forth,  in  warlike  armour  drest, 
Golden,  all  radiant !  wonder  strange  possessed 
The  everlasting  Gods  that  shape  to  see. 
Shaking  a  javelin  keen,  impetuously 
Rush  frOm  the  crest  of  ^gis-bearing  Jove ; 
Fearfully  Heaven  was  shaken,  and  did  move 
Beneath  the  might  of  the  Cerulean-eyed ; 
Earth  dreadfully  resounded,  far  and  wide. 
And  lifted  from  its  depths,  the  sea  swelled  high 
In  purple  billows,  the  tide  suddenly 
Stood  still,  and  great  Hyperion's  son  long  time 
Checked  his  swift  steeds,  till  where  she  stood  sublime, 
Pallas  from  her  immortal  shoulders  threw 
The  arms  divine ;  wise  Jove  rejoiced  to  view. 
Child  of  the  ^^gis-bearer,  hail  to  thee. 
Nor  thine  nor  others'  praise  shall  unremembered  be. 


2b2 


366 


TRANSLATIONS. 


THE    CYCLOPS: 
%  Satnric  Drama. 

TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  GREEK  OF  EURIPIDES, 


SiLENTJS. 

Chorus  of  Satyrs. 


Ulysses. 
The  Cyclops. 


O  Bacchus,  what  a  world  of  toil,  both  now 

And  ere  these  limbs  were  overworn  with  age, 

Have  I  endured  for  thee  !  First,  when  thou  fled'st 

The  mountain-nymphs  who  nurst  thee,  driven  afar 

By  the  strange  madness  Juno  sent  upon  thee ; 

Then  in  the  battle  of  the  sons  of  Earth, 

When  I  stood  foot  by  foot  close  to  thy  side, 

No  unpropiiious  fellow  combatant. 

And,  driving  through  his  shield  my  winged  spear, 

Slew  vast  Enceladus.     Consider  now. 

Is  it  a  dream  of  which  I  speak  to  thee  1 

By  Jove  it  is  not,  for  you  have  the  trophies ! 

And  now  I  suffer  more  than  all  before. 

For,  when  I  heard  that  Juno  had  devised 

A  tedious  voyage  for  you,  I  put  to  sea 

With  all  m}'  children  quaint  in  search  of  you, 

And  I  myself  stood  on  the  beaked  prow 

And  fixed  the  naked  mast ;  and  all  my  boys, 

Leaning  upon  their  oars,  with  splash  and  strain 

Made  white  with  foam  the  green  and  purple  sea, — 

And  so  we  sought  you,  king.     We  were  sailing 

Near  Malea,  when  an  eastern  wind  arose, 

And  drove  us  to  this  wild  ^tnean  rock; 

The  one-eyed  children  of  the  Ocean  God, 

The  man-destroying  Cyclopscs  inhabit, 

On  this  wild  shore,  their  solitary  caves ; 

And  one  of  these,  named  Polyphcmc,  has  caught  us 

To  be  his  slaves ;  and  so,  for  all  delight 

Of  Bacchic  sports,  sweet  dance  and  melody, 

We  keep  this  lawless  giant's  wandering  flocks. 

My  sons  indeed,  on  far  declivities. 

Young  things  themselves,  tend  on  the  youngling 

But  I  remain  to  fill  the  water  casks,  [sheep, 

Or  sweeping  the  hard  floor,  or  ministering] 

Some  impious  and  abominable  meal 

To  the  fell  Cyclops.     I  am  wearied  of  it ! 

And  now  I  must  scrape  up  the  littered  floor 

With  this  great  iron  rake,  so  to  receive 

My  absent  master  and  his  evening  sheep 

In  a  cave  neat  and  clean.     Even  now  I  see 

My  children  tending  the  flocks  hitherR-ard. 

Ha !  what  is  this  1  are  your  Sicinnian  measures 


Even  now  the  same  as  when  with  dance  and  sonj 
You  brought  young  Bacchus  to  Atha^a's  halls  1 


CHORUS    OF    SATYRS. 
STROPHE. 

Where  has  he  of  race  divine 
Wandered  in  the  winding  rocks  1 
Here  the  air  is  calm  and  fine 
For  the  father  of  the  flocks ; — • 
Here  the  grass  is  soft  and  sweet, 
And  the  river-eddies  meet 
In  the  trough  beside  the  cave. 
Bright  as  in  their  fountain  wave.— - 
Neither  here,  nor  on  the  dew 
Of  the  lawny  uplands  feeding  T 
Oh,  you  come  !-^a  stone  at  you 
Will  I  throw  to  mend  your  breeding ; 
Get  along  you  horned  thing 
Wild,  seditious,  rambling ! 

EPODE.* 

An  lacchic  melody 

To  the  golden  Aphrodite 

Will  I  lift,  as  erst  did  I 

Seeking  her  and  her  delight 

With  the  Mscnads,  whose  white  feet 

To  the  music  glance  and  fleet 

Bacchus,  O  beloved,  where, 

Shaking  wide  thy  yellow  hair, 

Wandercst  thou  alone,  afar  1 

To  the  one-eyed  Cyclops,  we, 

Who  by  right  thy  servants  are. 

Minister  in  misery. 

In  these  wretched  goat-skins  clad, 

Far  from  thy  delights  and  thee. 

SILE>"US. 

Be  silent,  sons ;  command  the  slaves  to  drive 
The  gathered  flocks  into  the  rock-roofed  cave. 

CHORUS. 

Go  !  But  what  needs  this  serious  haste,  0  father ! 
*  The  Antistrophe  is  omitted. 


THE    CYCLOPS. 


367 


SILENT!  i3. 

I  see  a  Grecian  vessel  on  tlie  coast, 

And  thence  the  rowers,  with  some  general, 

Approaching  to  this  cave.     About  their  necks 

Hang  empty  vessels,  as  they  wanted  food. 

And  water-flasks. — ^O  miserable  strangers  ! 

Whence  come  they,  that  they  know  not  what  and 

My  master  is,  approaching  in  ill  hour  [who 

The  inhospitable  roof  of  Polypheme, 

And  the  Cyclopian  jawbone,  man-destroying  T 

Be  silent,  Satyrs,  while  I  ask  iuid  hear, 

Whence  comin-g,  they  arrive  the  ^Etnean  hill. 

tTLTSSES. 

Friends,  can  you  show  me  some  clear  water  spring. 
The  remedy  of  our  thirst  1  Will  any  one 
Furnish  with  food  seamen  in  want  of  it  ] 
Ha !  what  is  this  1   We  seem  to  be  arrived 
At  the  blithe  court  of  Bacchus.     I  observe 
This  sportive  band  of  Satyrs  near  the  caves. 
First  let  me  greet  the  elder. — Hail ! 

SILEXUS. 

Hail  thou, 

0  Stranger  !  Tell  th}^  country  and  thy  race. 

rtrsBES. 
The  Ithacan  Ulysses  and  the  king 
Of  Cephalonia. 

SILEXUS. 

Oh  !  I  know  the  man, 
Wordy  and  shrewd,  the  son  of  Sisyphus. 

ULTSSES. 

1  am  the  same,  but  do  not  rail  upon  me. — 

SILEXXJS. 

Whence  sailing  do  you  come  to  Sicily  1 

trtTSSES. 

From  Ilion,  and  from  the  Trojan  toils. 

SILEXUS. 

How  touched  you  not  at  your  paternal  shore : 

ULYSSES. 

The  strength  of  tempests  bore  me  here  by  force. 

SILENUS. 

The  selfsame  accident  occurred  to  me. 

ULYSSES. 

Were  you  then  driven  here  by  stress  ot  weather  1 

SILENUS. 

Following  the  Pirates  who  had  kidnapped  Bacchus. 

ULYSSES. 

What  land  is  this,  and  who  inhabit  it  ? — 

SILENUS. 

^Etna,  the  loftiest  peak  in  Sicily. 

ULYSSES. 

And  are  there  walls,  and  tower-surrounded  towns! 

SILENUS. 

There  arc  not. — These  lone  rocks  are  bare  of  men. 

ULYSSES. 

And  who  possess  the  land  ?  the  race  of  beasts  ] 


SILETfUS. 

Cyclops,  who  live  in  caverns,  not  in  houses. 

ULYSSES. 

Obeying  whom  1     Or  is  the  state  popular  1 

SILENUS. 

Shepherds  :  no  one  obcy^  any  in  aught. 

ULYSSES. 

How  live  thc}'^  ]  do  they  sow  the  corn  of  Ceres  ? 

SILEXUS. 

On  milk  and  cheese,  and  on  tlie  flesh  of  sheep. 

ULYSSES. 

Have  they  the  Bromian  drink  from  the  vinc'sstream  1 

SILEXUS. 

Ah !  no ;  they  live  in  an  ungracious  land. 

ULYSSES. 

And  are  they  just  to  strangers? — hospitable! 

SILEXUS. 

They  think  the  sweetest  thing  a  stranger  brings, 
Is  his  own  flesh. 

ULYSSES. 

What !  do  they  cat  man's  flesh  1 

SILEXUS. 

No  one  comes  here  who  is  not  eaten  up. 

ULYSSES. 

The  Cyclops  now — where  is  he  1  Not  at  home  1 

SILEXUS. 

Absent  on  -Etna,  hunting  with  his  dogs. 

ULYSSES. 

Know'st  thou  what  thou  must  do  to  aid  us  hence  1 

SILENUS. 

I  know  not :  we  will  help  you  all  we  can. 

ULYSSES. 

Provide  us  food,  of  which  we  are  in  want. 

SILEXUS. 

Here  is  not  any  thing,  as  I  said,  but  meat. 

LTLYSSES. 

But  meat  is  a  sweet  remedy  for  hunger. 

SILEXUS. 

Cow's  milk  there  is,  and  store  of  curdled  cheese. 

ULYSSES. 

Bring  out : — I  would  sell  all  before  I  bargain. 

SILENUS. 

But  how  much  gold  will  you  engage  to  give  1 

ULYSSES. 

I  bring  no  gold,  but  Bacchic  juice. 

SILEXUS. 

O  joy  !  _ 
'Tis  long  since  these  dry  lips  were  wet  with  wdne. 

ULYSSES. 

Maron,  the  son  of  the  God,  gave  it  me. 

SILEXUS. 

Whom  I  have  nursed  a  baby  in  my  arms. 


368 


TRANSLATIONS. 


TLTSSES. 

The  son  of  Bacchus,  for  your  clearer  knowledge. 

SILKXUS. 

Have  you  it  now  ? — or  is  it  in  the  ship  1 

ULTSSKS. 

Old  man,  this  skin  contains  it,  which  you  see. 

SILENUS. 

Why  this  would  hardly  be  a  mouthful  for  me. 

rlTSSES. 

Nay,  twice  as  much  as  you  can  draw  from  thence. 

SILENVS. 

You  speak  of  a  fair  fountain,  sweet  to  me. 

ULTSSES. 

Would  you  first  taste  of  the  unmingled  wine  1 

SILENUS. 

'Tis  just — tasting  invites  the  purchaser. 

■PLTSSES. 

Here  is  the  cup,  together  with  the  skin. 

SILENUS. 

Pour:  that  the  draught  may  fillip  my  remembrance. 

uirssES. 
See! 

siLExrs. 
PapaJapaex,!  what  a  sweet  smell  it  has  ! 

ULYSSES. 

You  see  it  then  ? — ■ 

SILENUS. 

By  Jove,  no !  but  I  smell  it. 

ULYSSES. 

Taste,  that  you  may  not  praise  it  in  words  only. 

SILEXUS. 

Babai !  Great  Bacchus  calls  me  forth  to  dance  ! 
Joy  !  joy  ! 

ULYSSES. 

Did  it  flow  sweetly  down  your  throat  1 

SILEKUS. 

So  that  it  tingled  to  my  very  nails. 

ULYSSES. 

And  in  addition  I  will  give  you  gold. 

SILENUS. 

Let  gold  alone !  only  unlock  the  cask. 

ULYSSES. 

Bring  out  some  cheeses  now,  or  a  young  goat. 

SILENTS. 

That  will  I  do,  despising  any  master. 
Yes,  let  me  drink  one  cup,  and  I  will  give 
All  that  the  Cyclops  feed  upon  their  mountains. 
*  »  *  *  » 

CHonus. 
Ye  have  taken  Troy,  and  laid  your  hands  on  Helen? 

ULYSSES. 

And  utterly  destroyed  the  race  of  Priam. 


'J'he  wanton  wretch  !  She  was  bewitched  to  see 
The  many-coloured  anklets  and  the  chain 
Of  woven  gold  which  girt  the  neck  of  Paris, 
And  so  she  left  that  good  man  Menelaus. 
There  should  be  no  more  women  in  the  world 
But  such  as  arc  reserved  foi'  me  alone. — 
See,  here  are  sheep,  and  here  are  goats,  Ulysses ; 
Here  are  unsparing   cheeses  of  pressed  milk  ; 
Take  them  ;  depart  with  what  good  speed  ye  may  ; 
First  leaving  my  reward,  the  Bacchic  dew 
Of  joy-inspiring  grapes. 

-ULYSSES. 

Ah  me  !  Alas ! 
What  sliall  we  do  1   the  Cyclops  is  at  hand  ! 
Old  man,  we  perish !  whither  can  we  fly  1 

SILENUS. 

Hide  yourselves  quick  within  tliat  hollow  rock. 

ULYSSES. 

'Twere  perilous  to  fly  into  the  net. 

SILEJfUS. 

The  cavern  has  recesses  numberless  ; 
Hide  yourselves  quick. 

ULYSSES. 

That  will  I  never  do ! 
The  mighty  Troy  would  be  indeed  disgraced 
If  I  should  fly  one  man.     How  many  times 
Have  I  withstood  with  shield  immovable. 
Ten  thousand  Phrygians  ! — If  I  needs  must  die, 
Yet  will  I  die  with  glory  ; — If  I  live. 
The  praise  which  I  have  gained  will  yet  remain. 

SILEXUS. 

What,  ho  !  assistance,  comrades,  haste,  assistance  ! 
The  Cyclops,  Silenus,  Ulysses  ;  Chorus. 

CYCLOPS. 

What  is  this  tumult  1  Bacchus  is  not  here, 
Nor  tympanies  nor  brazen  castanets. 
How  are  my  young  lambs  in  the  cavern  1  Milking 
Their  dams,  or  playing  by  their  sides  1     And  is 
The  nevi^  cheese  pressed  into  the  buUrnsh  baskets  1 
Speak !  I'll  beat  some  of  you  till  you  rain  tears — 
Look  up,  not  downwards,  when  I  speak  to  you. 

SILEXUS. 

See  !  I  now  gape  at  Jupiter  himself, 
I  stare  upon  Orion  and  the  stars. 

CYCLOPS. 

Well,  is  the  dinner  litly  cooked  and  laid  1 

SILEJfUS. 

All  ready,  if  your  throat  is  ready  too. 

CYCLOPS. 

Are  the  bowls  full  of  milk  besides  ] 

SILENUS. 

O'crbrimming ; 
So  you  may  drink  a  tunful  if  you  will. 

CYCLOPS. 

Is  it  ewe's  milk,  or  cows's  milk,  or  both  mixed  1 — 


THE    CYCLOPS. 


369 


Both,  cither  ;  only  pray  don't  swallow  me. 

CTCLOPS. 

Bv  no  means 


What  is  this  crowd  I  sec  beside  the  stalls  1 
Outlaws  or  thieves  ]   for  near  my  cavern  home 
I  see  my  young'  lambs  coupled  two  by  two 
With  willow  bands ;  mixed  with  my  cheeses  lie 
Their  implements ;  and  this  old  fellow  here 
Has  his  bald  head  broken  with  the  strijjcs. 

SILENCS.' 

Ah  me ! 
I  have  been  beaten  till  I  burn  with  fever. 

crcLops. 

By  whom  1    Who  laid  his  fist  upon  your  head  1 

SILEXCS. 

Those  men,  because  I  would  not  suffer  them 
To  steal  your  goods. 

CYCLOPS. 

Do  not  the  rascals  know 
I  am  a  God,  sprung  from  the  race  of  heaven  1 

SILEXUS. 

I  told  them  so,  but  they  bore  off  your  things, 
And  ate  the  cheese  in  spite  of  all  I  said. 
And  carried  out  the  lambs — and  said,  moreover. 
They'd  pin  you  down  with  a  three-cubit  collar. 
And  pull  your  vitals  out  through  your  one  eye, 
Torture  your  back  with  stripes  ;  then,  binding  you, 
Throw  you  as  ballast  into  the  ship's  hold. 
And  then  deliver  you,  a  slave,  to  move 
Enormous  rocks,  or  found  a  vestibule. 


In  truth  1  Nay,  haste,  and  place  in  order  quickly 

The  cooking  knives,  and  heap  upon  the  hearth, 

And  kindle  it,  a  great  fagot  of  wood. — ■ 

As  soon  as  they  are  slaughtered,  they  shall  fdl 

My  belly,  broiling  warm  from  the  live  coals, 

Or  boiled  and  seethed  within  the  bubbling  cauldron. 

I  am  quite  sick  of  the  wild  mountain  game ; 

Of  stags  and  lions  I  have  gorged  enough. 

And  I  grow  hungry  for  the  flesh  of  men. 


Nay,  master,  something  new  is  very  pleasant 

After  one  thing  for  ever,  and  of  late 

Very  few  strangers  have  approached  our  cave. 


Hear,  Cyclops,  a  plain  tale  on  the  other  side. 
We,  wanting  to  buy  food,  came  from  our  ship 
Into  the  neighbourhood  of  your  cave,  and  here 
This  old  Silenus  gave  us  in  exchange 
These  lambs  for  wine,  the  which  he  took  and  drank. 
And  all  by  mutual  compact,  without  force. 
There  is  no  word  of  truth  in  what  he  says, 
For  slily  he  was  seUing  all  your  store. 
47 


I  ?     May  you  perish,  wretch- 


If  I  speak  false  ! 


Cyclops,  I  swear  by  Neptune  who  begot  thee, 
By  mighty  Triton  and  by  Ncreus  old, 
Calypso  and  the  glaucous  ocean  Nymphs, 
The  sacred  waves  and  all  the  race  of  fishes — 
Be  these  the  witnesses,  my  dear  sweet  master, 
My  darling  little  Cyclops,  that  I  never 
Gave  any  of  your  stores  to  these  false  strangers. — 
If  I  speak  false  may  those  whom  most  I  love, 
My  children,  perish  wretchedly  ! 

CHORUS. 

There  stop! 
I  saw  him  giving  these  things  to  the  strangers. 
If  I  speak  false,  then  may  my  father  perish, 
But  do  not  thou  wrong  hospitality. 

CTCIOPS. 

You  lie  !  I  swear  that  he  is  juster  far 
Than  Rhadamanthus — I  trust  more  in  him. 
But  let  me  ask,  whence  have  ye  sailed,  O  strangers  1 
Who  are  you  1  and  what  city  nourished  ye  I 

rLYSSES. 

Our  race  is  Ithacan. — Having  destroyed 
The  town  of  Troy,  the  tempests  of  the  sea 
Have  driven  us  on  thy  land,  O  Polypheme. 

CTCLOPS. 

What,  have  ye  shared  in  the  unenvied  spoil 
Of  the  false  Helen,  near  Scamander's  stream  1 

ULYSSES. 

The  same,  having  endured  a  woful  toil. 

CYCLOPS. 

0  basest  expedition  !  Sailed  ye  not 

From  Greece  to  Phrygia  for  one  woman's  sake  1 

TLYSSES. 

'Twas  the  God's  work — no  mortal  was  in  fault. 
But,  0  great  offspring  of  the  Ocean  King! 
We  pray  thee  and  admonish  thee  with  freedom. 
That  thou  dost  spare  thy  friends  who  visit  thee, 
And  place  no  impious  food  within  thy  jaws. 
For  in  the  depths  of  Greece  we  have  upreared 
Temples  to  thy  great  father,  which  are  all 
His  homes.     The  sacred  bay  of  Tscnarus 
Remains  inviolate,  and  each  dim  recess 
Scooped  high  on  the  Malcan  promontory, 
And  aery  Sunium's  silver-veined  crag. 
Which  divine  Pallas  keeps  unprofaiied  ever. 
The  Gerastian  asylums,  and  whate'er 
Within  wide  Greece  our  enterprise  has  kept 
From  Phrygian  contumely ;  and  in  which 
You  have  a  common  care,  for  you  itdiabit 
The  skirts  of  Grecian  land,  under  the  roots 
Of  yEtna  and  its  crags,  spotted  with  fire. 
Turn  then  to  converse  under  human  laws; 
Receive  us  shipwrecked  suppliants,  and  jjronde 
Food,  clothes,  and  fire,  and  hospitable  gifts; 
Nor,  fixing  upon  oxen-piercing  spits 
Our  limbs,  so  fill  your  belly  and  your  jaws. 


370 


TRANSLATIONS. 


Priam's  wide  land  has  widowed  Greece  enough  ; 
And  weapon-winged  murder  heaped  together 
Enough  of  dead,  and  wives  are  husbs^ndiess, 
And  ancient  women  and  gray  fathers  wail 
Their  childless  age  ; — if  you  should  roast  the  rest, 
And  'tis  a  bitter  feast  that  you  prepare, 
Where  then  would  any  turn  ?    Yet  be  persuaded  ; 
Forego  the  lust  of  your  jawbone  ;  prefer 
Pious  humanity  to  wicked  will ; 
Many  have  bought  too  dear  their  evil  joys. 

SILBXUS. 

Let  me  advise  you  ;  do  not  spare  a  morsel 
Of  all  his  flesh.     If  you  should  eat  his  tongue 
You  would  become  most  eloquent,  O  Cyclops. 

CYCLOPS. 

Wealth,  my  good  fellow,  is  the  wise  man's  God ; 

All  other  things  are  a  pretence  and  boast. 

What  are  my  father's  ocean  promontories. 

The  sacred  rocks  whereon  he  dwells,  to  me  ? 

Stranger,  I  laugh  to  scorn  Jove's  thunderbolt, 

I  know  not  that  his  strength  is  more  than  mine. 

As  to  the  rest  I  care  not. — When  he  pours 

Rain  from  above,  I  have  a  close  pavilion 

Under  this  rock,  in  which  I  lie  supine, 

Feasting  on  a  roast  calf  or  some  wild  beast. 

And  drinking  pans  of  milk,  and  gloriously 

Emulating  the  thunder  of  high  heaven. 

And  when  the  Thracian  wind  pours  down  the  snow, 

I  WTap  my  body  in  the  skins  of  beasts. 

Kindle  a  fire,  and  bid  the  snow  whirl  on. 

The  earth  by  force,  whether  it  will  or  no, 

Bringing  forth  grass,  fattens  my  flocks  and  herds, 

Which,  to  what  other  God  but  to  myself 

And  this  great  belly,  first  of  deities. 

Should  I  be  bound  to  sacrifice  ]     I  well  know 

The  wise  man's  only  Jupiter  is  this, 

To  eat  and  drink  during  his  little  day, 

And  give  himself  no  care.     And  as  for  those 

Who  complicate  with  laws  the  life  of  man, 

I  freely  give  them  tears  for  their  reward. 

I  will  not  cheat  my  soul  of  its  delight, 

Or  hesitate  in  dining  upon  you  : — 

And  that  I  may  be  quit  of  all  demands, 

These  are  my  hospitable  gifts ; — fierce  fire 

And  yon  ancestral  cauldron,  which  o'erbubbling 

Shall  finely  cook  your  miserable  flesh. 

Creep  in ! — 


ULYSSES. 

Ay,  ay !  I  have  escaped  the  Trojan  toils, 
I  have  escaped  the  sea,  and  now  I  fall 
Under  the  cruel  grasp  of  one  impious  man. 
O  Pallas,  mistress.  Goddess,  sprang  from  Jove, 
Now,  now,  assist  me !     Mightier  toils  than  Troy 
Are  these  ; — I  totter  on  the  chasms  of  peril ; — 
And  thou  who  inhahitcst  the  thrones 
Of  the  bright  stars,  look,  hospitable  Jove, 
Upon  this  outrage  of  thy  deity, 
Otherwise  be  considered  as  no  God. 

CHonus  (^alonc.') 

For  your  gaping  gulf  and  your  gullet  wide 
The  ravine  is  ready  on  every  side ; 


The  limbs  of  the  strangers  are  cooked  and  done, 
There  is  boiled  meat,  and  roast  meat,  and   meat 

from  the  coal, 
You  may  chop  it,  and  tear  it,  and  gnash  it  for  fun, 
A  hairy  goat's  skin  contains  the  whole. 
Let  me  but  escape,  and  ferrj'  me  o'er 
The  stream  of  your  wrath  to  a  safer  shore. 

The  Cyclops  ^tnean  is  cruel  and  bold, 
He  murders  the  strangers 
That  sit  on  his  hearth. 
And  dreads  no  avengers 
To  rise  from  the  earth. 
He  roasts  the  men  before  they  are  cold. 
He  snatches  them  broiling  from  the  coal. 
And  from  the  cauldron  pulls  tliem  whole, 
And  minces  their  flesh  and  gnaws  their  bone 
With  his  cursed  teeth,  till  all  be  gone. 

Farewell,  foul  pavilion  ! 
Farewell,  rites  of  dread! 

The  Cyclops  vermilion. 
With  slaughter  uncloying, 

Now  feasts  on  the  dead, 
In  the  flesh  of  strangers  joying ! 

TJLYSSKS. 

O  Jupiter !  I  saw  within  the  cave 

Horrible  things ;  deeds  to  be  feigned  in  words, 

But  not  believed  as  being  done. 

CHOHl'S. 

What !  Rawest  thou  the  impious  Polypheme 
Feasting  upon  your  loved  companions  now  1 

TTLYSSES. 

Selecting  two,  the  plumpest  of  the  crowd. 
He  grasped  them  in  his  hands. — 

CHORUS. 

Unhappy  man ! 

******* 

ULYSSES. 

Soon  as  we  came  into  this  craggy  place. 

Kindling  a  fire,  he  cast  on  the  broad  hearth 

The  knotty  limbs  of  an  enormous  oak. 

Three  wagon-loads  at  least,  and  then  he  strewed 

Upon  the  ground,  beside  the  red  fire  light. 

His  couch  of  pine  leaves ;  and  he  milked  the  cows, 

And  pouring  forth  the  white  milk,  filled  a  bowl 

Three  cubits  wide  and  four  in  depth,  as  much 

As  would  contain  four  amjihor.-c,  and  bound  it 

With  ivy  wreaths  ;  then  placed  upon  the  fire 

A  brazen  pot  to  boil,  and  make  red  hot 

The  points  of  spits,  not  sharpened  with  the  sickle, 

But  with  a  fruit  tree  bough,  and  with  the  jaws 

Of  axes  for  ^Etna's  slaughterings.* 

And  when  this  God-abandoned  cook  of  hell 

Has  made  all  ready,  he  seized  two  of  us. 

And  killed  them  in  a  kind  of  measured  manner  ; 

For  he  flung  one  against  the  br^izcn  rivets 

Of  the  huge  cauldron,  and  seized  the  other 

By  the  foot's  tendon,  and  knocked  out  his  brains 

Upon  the  sharp  edge  of  the  craggy  stone : 

Then  peeled  his  flesh  with  a  great  cooking  knife, 

And  put  him  down  to  roast.     The  other's  limbs 

He  chopped  into  the  cauldron  to  be  boiled. 

And  I,  with  tears  raining  from  my  eyes, 

*  I  confess  I  do  not  understand  this.— JVwJe  of  the  Author. 


THE    CYCLOPS. 


371 


Stood  near  the  Cyclops,  ministering  to  him ; 

The  rest,  in  the  recesses  of  tlie  cave, 

CUnii?  to  the  rock  like  bats,  bloodless  with  fear. 

When  he  was  filled  with  my  companions'  Hesh, 

He  threw  himself  upon  the  ground,  and  sent 

A  loathsome  exhalation  from  his  maw. 

Tiien  a  divine  thought  came  to  me.    I  filled 

The  cup  of  Maron,  and  I  ofl'ored  him 

To  taste,  and  said  : — "  Child  of  the  Ocean-God, 

Behold  what  drink  the  vines  of  Greece  produce, 

The  exultation  and  the  joy  of  Bacchus." 

He,  satiated  with  his  unnatural  food. 

Received  it,  and  at  one  draught  drank  it  off 

And  taking  my  hand,  praised  me: — "Thou  hast 

given 
A  sweet  draught  after  a  sweet  meal,  dear  guest." 
And  I,  perceiving  that  it  pleased  him,  filled 
Another  cup,  well  knowing  that  the  wine 
Would  wound  him  soon  and  take  a  sure  revenge. 
And  the  charm  fascinated  him,  and  I 
Plied  him  cup  after  cup,  until  the  drink 
Had  warmed  his  entrails,  and  he  sang  aloud 
In  concert  with  my  wailing  fellow-seamen 
A  hideous  discord — and  the  cavern  rung. 
I  have  stolen  out,  so  that  if  you  will 
You  may  achieve  my  safety  and  your  own. 
But  say,  do  you  desire,  or  not,  to  lly 
This  uncompanionable  man,  and  dwell. 
As  was  your  wont,  among  the  Grecian  nymphs, 
Within  the  fanes  of  your  beloved  Godl 
Your  father  there  within  .agrees  to  it, 
But  he  is  weak  and  overcome  with  wine, 
And  caught  as  if  with  hirdlinie  by  the  cup. 
He  claps  his  wings  and  crows  in  doating  joy. 
You  who  arc  young  escape  with  me,  and  find 
Bacchus  your  ancient  friend;  unsuued  he 
To  this  rude  Cyclops. 

CHonrs. 

O  my  dearest  friend, 
That  I  could  see  that  day,  and  leave  for  ever 
The  impious  Cyclops. 

****** 

ULYSSES. 

Listen  then  what  a  punishment  I  have 
For  this  fell  monster,  how  secure  a  flight 
From  your  hard  servitude. 


O  sweeter  far 
Than  is  the  music  of  an  Asian  lyre 
,^^'ould  be  ^he  news  of  Polypheme  destroyed. 

TLYSSES. 

Delighted  with  the  Bacchic  drink,  he  goes 
To  call  his  brotlier  Cyclops — who  inhabit 
A  village  upon  .'Etna  not  far  olT. 

CHORUS. 

I  understand :  catching  him  when  alone. 
You  think  by  some  measure  to  despatch  him, 
Or  thrust  him  from  the  precipice. 

ULYSSES. 

O  no; 
Nothing  of  that  kind ;  my  device  is  subtle. 


How  then  1 


cnonus. 

I  heard  of  old  that  thou  wert  wise. 


ULYSSES. 

I  will  dissuade  him  from  ^his  plan,  by  saying 

It  were  unwise  to  give  the  Cyclopses 

'JMiis  precious  drink,  which  if  enjoyed  alone 

Would  make  life  sweeter  for  a  longer  time. 

W'heti  vanquished  by  the  Bacchic  power,  he  sleeps, 

There  is  a  truidc  of  olive-wood  within. 

Whose  point,  having  made  sharp  with  this  good 

sword, 
I  will  conceal  in  fire,  and  when  I  see 
It  is  alight,  will  fix  it,  burning  yet. 
Within  the  socket  of  the  Cyclops'  eye. 
And  melt  it  out  with  fire^ — as  when  a  man 
Turns  by  its  handle  a  great  auger  round. 
Fitting  the  framework  of  a  ship  with  beams, 
So  will  I  in  the  Cyclops'  fiery  eye 
Turn  round  the  brand,  and  dry  the  pupil  up. 

CHORUS. 

Joy  !  I  am  mad  with  joy  at  your  device. 

ULYSSES. 

And  then  with  you,  my  friends,  and  the  old  man, 
We'll  load  the  hollow  depth  of  our  black  ship. 
And   row  with  double    strokes    from    this    dread 
shore. 

CHORUS. 

May  I,  as  in  libations  to  a  God, 

Share  in  the  blinding  him  with  the  red  brand! 

I  would  have  some  communion  in  his  death. 

ULYSSES. 

Doubtless ;  the  brand  is  a  great  brand  to  hold. 

CHORUS. 

Oh !  I  would  lift  a  hundred  wagon-loads. 

If  like  a  wasp's  nest  I  could  scoop  the  eye  out 

Of  the  detested  Cyclops. 

ULYSSES. 

Silence  now ! 
Ye  know  the  close  device — and  when  I  call, 
Look  ye  obey  the  masters  of  the  craft. 
I  wilt  not  save  myself  and  leave  behind 
My  comrades  in  the  cave :  I  might  escape, 
Having  got  clear  from  that  obscure  recess, 
But  'twere  unjust  to  leave  in  jeopardy 
The  dear  companions  who  sailed  here  with  mc. 

CHORUS. 

Come  !  who  is  first,  that  with  his  hand 
Will  urge  down  the  burning  brand 
Through  the  lids,  and  quench  and  pierce 
The  Cyclops'  eye  so  fierj'  fierce  1 

sEMicuoHus  I.     Sang  within. 
Listen  !  listen  !  he  is  coming, 
A  most  hideous  discord  humming, 
Drunken,  musclcss,  awkward,  yelling. 
Far  along  his  rocky  dwelling; 
Let  Us  with  some  comic  spell 
Teach  the  yet  unteachable. 
By  all  means  he  must  be  blinded. 
If  my  counsel  be  but  minded. 


372 


TRANSLATIONS. 


SEMICHOnUS    II. 

Happy  those  made  odorous 

With  the  dew  which  sweet  grapes  weep, 

To  the  village  hastening  thus, 

Seek  the  vines  that  soothe  to  sleep, 

Ha^dng  first  embraced  thy  friend, 

There  in  luxury  without  end, 

With  the  strings  of  yellow  hair, 

Of  thy  voluptuous  Icman  fair, 

Shalt  sit  playing  on  a  bed  ! — 

Speak,  what  door  is  opened  ! 

CYCLOPS. 

Ha!  ha!  ha!  I'm  full  of  wine, 

Heavy  with  the  joy  divine. 

With  the  young  feast  oversated. 

Like  a  merchant's  vessel  freighted 

To  the  water's  edge,  my  crop 

Is  laden  to  the  gullet's  top. 

The  fresh  meadow  grass  of  spring 

Tempts  me  forth,  thus  wandering 

To  my  brothers  on  the  mountains. 

Who  shall  share  the  wine's  sweet  fountains. 

Bring  the  cask,  O  stranger,  bring ! 

CHOHUS. 

One  with  eyes  the  fairest 

Cometh  from  his  dwelling; 

Some  one  loves  thee,  rarest, 

Bright  beyond  my  telling. 

In  thy  grace  thou  shinest 

Like  some  nymph  divinest, 

In  her  caverns  dewy  ; — • 

All  delights  pursue  thee, 

Soon  pied  flowers,  sweet-breathing, 

Shall  thy  head  be  wreathing. 

ULTSSES. 

Listen,  0  Cyclops,  for  I  am  well  skilled 
In  Bacchus,  whom  I  gave  thee  of  to  drink. 

CYCLOPS. 

What  sort  of  God  is  Bacchus  then  accounted  1 

rLYSSES. 

The  greatest  among  men  for  joy  of  life. 

CYCLOPS. 

I  gulpt  him  down  with  very  great  delight. 

TLYSSES. 

This  is  a  god  who  never  injures  men. 

CYCLOPS. 

How  does  the  God  like  living  in  a  skin  1 

ULYSSES. 

He  is  content  wherever  he  is  put. 

CYCLOPS. 

Gods  should  not  have  their  body  in  a  skin. 

■ULYSSES. 

If  he  give  joy,  what  is  his  skin  to  you  ? 

CYCLOPS. 

I  hate  the  skin,  but  love  the  wine  within. 

ULYSSES. 

Stay  here ;  now  drink,  and  make  your  spirit  glad. 


CYCLOPS. 

Should  I  not  share  this  liquor  with  my  brothers  1 

ULYSSES. 

Keep  it  yourself,  and  be  more  honoured  so. 

CYCLOPS. 

I  were  more  useful,  giving  to  my  friends. 

ULYSSES. 

But  village  mirth  breeds  contests,  broils,  and  blows. 

CYCLOPS. 

When  I  am  drunk  none  shall  lay  hands  on  me. — 

ULYSSES. 

A  drunken  man  is  better  within  doors. 

CYCLOPS. 

He  is  a  fool,  who  drinking  loves  not  mirth. 

ULYSSES. 

But  he  is  wise,  who  drunk,  remains  at  home. 

CYCLOPS. 

What  shall  I  do,  Silenus  ]  Shall  I  stay  1 

SILEXUS. 

Stay — for  what  need  have  you  of  pot  companions  t 

CYCLOPS. 

Indeed  this  place  is  closely  carpeted 
With  flowers  and  grass. , 

SILEIfUS. 

And  in  the  sun-warm  noon 

'Tis  sweet  to  drink.     Lie  down  beside  me  now, 

Placing  your  mighty  sides  upon  the  ground. 

CYCLOPS. 

What  do  you  put  the  cup  behind  me  for  ? 

SILESUS. 

That  no  one  here  may  touch  it. 

CYCLOPS. 

Thievish  one! 
You  want  to  drink : — here  place  it  in  the  midst. 
And  thou,  O  stranger,  tell  how  art  thou  called  ? 

ULYSSES. 

My  name  is  Nobody.     What  favour  now 
Shall  I  receive  to  praise  you  at  your  hands  1 

CYCLOPS. 

I'll  feast  on  you  the  last  of  your  companions. 

ULYSSES. 

You  grant  your  guest  a  fair  reward,  0  Cyclops. 

CYCLOPS. 

Ha !  what  is-  this  1  Stealing  the  wine,  you  rogue  ? 

SILENUS. 

It  was  this  stranger  kissing  me,  because 
I  looked  so  beautiful. 

CYCLOPS. 

You  shall  repent 
For  kissing  the  coy  wine  that  loves  you  not. 

SILENUS. 

By  Jupiter !  you  said  that  I  am  fair. 


THE    CYCLOPS. 


373 


CYCLOPS. 

Pour  out,  and  only  give  me  the  cup  full. 

SILENUS. 

How  is  it  mixed  ]     Let  me  observe. 


Give  it  me  so. 


Curse  you! 


SILENCS. 

Not  till  I  see  you  wear 
That  coronal,  and  taste  the  cup  to  you, 

CYCLOPS. 

Thou  wily  traitor ! 

SILENCS. 

But  the  wine  is  sweet. 
Ay,  you  will  roar  if  you  are  caught  in  drinking. 

CYCLOPS. 

See  now,  my  lip  is  clean  and  all  my  beard. 

SILEIflJS. 

Now  put  your  elbow  right,  and  drink  again, 
As  you  see  me  drink —     *  »  * 

CYCLOPS. 

How  nowl 

siLEirus. 
Ye  Gods,  what  a  delicious  gulp ! 

CYCLOPS. 

Guest,  take  it ; — ^you  pour  out  the  wine  for  me. 

ULYSSES. 

The  wine  is  well  accustomed  to  my  hand. 

CYCLOPS. 

Pour  out  the  wine  ! 

ULYSSES. 

I  pour ;  only  be  silent. 

CYCLOPS. 

Silence  is  a  hard  task  to  him  who  drinks. 

ULYSSES. 

Take  it  and  drink  it  off;  leave  not  a  dreg. 

Oh,  that  the  drinker  died  with  his  own  draught ! 

CYCLOPS. 

Papai !  the  ■vine  must  be  a  sapient  plant. 

ULYSSES. 

If  you  drink  much  after  a  mighty  feast. 
Moistening  your  thirsty  maw,  you  will  sleep  well ; 
If  you  leave  aught  Bacchus  will  dry  you  up. 

CYCLOPS. 

Ho !  ho !  I  can  scarce  rise.     What  pure  delight ! 
The  heavens  and  earth  appear  to  whirl  about 
Confusedly.     I  see  the  throne  of  Jove 
And  the  clear  congregation  of  the  Gods. 
Now  if  the  Graces  tempted  me  to  kiss, 
I  would  not,  for  the  lovcHcst  of  them  all 
I  would  not  leave  tliis  Ganymede. 


I  am  the  Ganymede  of  Jupiter. 


Polypheme, 


CYCLOPS. 

By  Jove  you  are  ;  I  bore  you  off  from  Dardanus. 
Ulvsses  and  the   Chorus. 

ULYSSES. 

Come,  boys  of  Bacchus,  children  of  high  race, 

This  man  within  is  folded  up  in  sleep. 

And  soon  will  vomit  flesh  from  his  fell  maw; 

'J'hc  brand  under  the  shed  thrusts  out  its  smoke, 

No  preparation  needs,  but  to  burn  out 

The  monster's  eye  ; — but  bear  yourselves  like  men. 

CHonus. 
We  will  have  courage  like  the  adamant  rock. 
All  things  are  ready  for  you  here ;  go  in, 
Before  our  father  shall  perceive  the  noise. 

ULYSSES. 

Vulcan,  -Etnean  king  !  burn  out  with  fire 

The  shining  eye  of  tiiis  thy  neighbouring  monster  ! 

And  thou,  O  Sleep,  nursling  of  gloomy  night, 

Descend  unmixed  on  this  God-hated  beast, 

And  suffer  not  Ulysses  and  his  comrades. 

Returning  from  their  famous  Trojan  toils. 

To  perish  by  this  man,  who  cares  not  either 

For  God  or  mortal ;  or  I  needs  must  think 

That  Chance  is  a  supreme  divinity. 

And  things  divine  are  subject  to  her  power. 

CHORUS. 

Soon  a  crab  the  throat  will  seize 
Of  him  who  feeds  upon  his  guest, 

Fire  will  burn  his  lamplike  eyes 
In  revenge  of  such  a  feast ! 

A  great  oak  stump  low  is  lying 

In  the  ashes  yet  undying. 

Come,  Maron,  come ! 
Raging  let  him  fix  the  doom, 
Let  him  tear  the  eyelid  up, 
Of  the  Cyclops — that  his  cup 

May  be  evil ! 
Oh,  I  long  to  dance  and  revel 
With  sweet  Bromian,  long  desired. 
In  loved  ivy  wreaths  attired ; 

Leaving  this  abandoned  home — 

Will  the  moment  ever  come  ] 

ULYSSES. 

Be  silent,  ye  wild  things  !     Nay,  hold  your  peace. 
And  keep  your  lips  quite  close ;  dare  not  to  breathe, 
Or  spit,  or  e'en  wink,  lest  ye  wake  the  monster, 
Until  his  eye  be  tortured  out  with  fire. 

CHOHUS. 

Nay,  we  are  sOent,  and  we  chaw  the  air. 

ULYSSES. 

Come  now,  and  lend  a  hand  to  the  great  stake 
Within — it  is  delightfully  red  hot. 

CHORUS. 

You  then  command  who  first  should  seize  the  stake 
To  burn  the  Cyclops'  eye,  that  all  may  share 
In  the  great  enterprise. 

sE:>riCHORus  i. 

We  are  too  few ; 
We  cannot  at  this  distance  from  the  door 
Thrust  fire  into  his  eye. 


374 


TRANSLATIONS. 


SKMICIIORCS    ir. 

And  we  just  now 
Have  become  lame ;  cannot  move  hand  nor  foot. 

ciionus. 
The  same  thing  has  occurcd  to  us ; — our  ankles 
Are  sprained  with  standing  here,  I  know  not  how. 

ULTSSKS. 

What,  sprained  with  standing  still  1 

CHOKIS. 

And  there  is  dust 
Or  ashes  in  our  eyes,  I  knew  not  whence. 

rLTSSES. 

Cowardly  dogs !  ye  will  not  aid  me,  then  ] 

CHOUl'S. 

With  pitying  my  own  back  and  my  backbone, 

And  with  not  wishing  all  my  teeth  knocked  out. 

This  cowardice  comes  of  itself — but  stay, 

I  know  a  famous  Orphic  incantation 

To  make  the  brand  slick  of  its  own  accord 

Into  the  skull  of  tliis  one-eyed  son  of  Earth. 

ULYSSES. 

Of  old  I  knew  ye  thus  by  nature ;  now 

I  know  ye  better. — I  will  use  the  aid 

Of  my  own  comrades — yet  though  weak  of  hand 

Speak  cheerfully,  that  so  ye  may  awaken 

The  courage  of  my  friends  with  your  blithe  words. 

cHonus. 
This  I  will  do  with  peril  of  my  life. 
And  bUnd  you  with  my  exhortations,  Cyclops. 

Hasten  and  thrust, 
And  parch  up  to  dust, 
The  eye  of  the  beast. 
Who  feeds  on  his  guest. 
Burn  and  bhnd 
The  ^tnean  hind ! 
Scoop  and  draw, 
But  beware  lest  he  claw 
Your  limbs  near  his  maw. 

CYCLOPS. 

Ah  me !  my  eyesight  is  parched  up  to  cinders. 

CHonus. 
What  a  sweet  pcean !  sing  me  that  again ! 

CYCLOPS. 

Ah  me !  indeed,  what  wo  has  fallen  upon  me  ! 
But,  wTetched  nothings,  think  ye  not  to  flee 
Out  of  this  rock;  I,  standing  at  the  outlet, 
Will  bar  the  way,  and  catch  you  as  you  pass. 

cnonus. 
What  are  j- ou  roaring  out,  Cyclops  1 

CYCLOPS. 

I  perish ! 

CHORUS. 

For  you  are  wicked. 

CYCLOPS. 

And  besides  miserable. 
cnouus. 
What,  did  you  fall  into  the  fire  when  drunk  1 


CYCLOPS. 

'Twas  Nobody  destroyed  me. 


Can  be  to  blame. 


Who  blinded  me. 


Why  then  no  one 

CYCLOPS. 

I  say  'twas  Nobody 

CHORUS. 

Why  then,  you  are  not  blind ! 


CYCLOPS. 

I  w  ish  you  were  as  blind  as  I  am. 

CHORUS. 

Nay, 
It  cannot  be  that  no  one  made  you  bhnd. 

CYCLOPS. 

You  jeer  me ;  where,  I  ask,  is  Nobody  1 

CHORUS. 

No  where,  O  Cyclops         »  *         » 

CYCLOPS. 

It  was  that  stranger  ruined  me  : — the  wretch 
First  gave  me  wine,  and  then  burnt  out  my  eye, 
For  wine  is  strong  and  hard  to  struggle  with. 
Have  they  escaped,  or  are  they  yet  witliin  ! 


They  stand  under  the  darkness  of  the  rock, 
And  cling  to  it. 

CYCLOPS. 

At  my  right  hand  or  leftl 

CHORUS. 

Close  on  your  right. 

CYCLOPS. 

Where  1 


Near  the  rock  itself. 


You  have  them. 


CYCLOPS. 

Oh,  misfortune  on  misforttmc ! 
I've  cracked  my  skull. 

CHORUS. 

Now  they  escape  you  there. 

CYCLOPS. 

Not  there,  although  you  say  so. 

CHORUS. 


Not  on  that  side. 


Where  then  1 


CHORUS. 

They  creep  about  you  on  your  left. 

CYCLOPS. 

Ah !  I  am  mocked !     They  jeer  me  in  my  ills. 

CHORUS. 

Not  there  !  he  is  a  httle  there  beyond  you. 


THE    CYCLOPS. 


375 


CYCLOPS. 

Detested  wretch  !  where  art  thou  1 

ULYSSES. 

Far  from  you 
I  keep  with  care  this  body  of  Ulysses. 

CYCLOPS. 

Wliat  do  you  say  1     You  proffer  a  new  name. 

ULYSSKS. 

My  father  named  me  so ;  and  I  have  taken 

A  full  revenge  for  your  unnatural  feast ; 

I  should  have  done  ill  to  have  burned  down  Troy, 

And  not  revenged  the  murder  of  my  comrades. 

CYCLOPS. 

Ai !  ai !  the  ancient  oracle  is  accomplished ; 
It  said  that  I  should  have  my  eyesight  blinded 


By  you  coming  from  Troy,  yet  it  foretold 
That  you  should  pay  the  penalty  for  this 
By  vvaiulering  long  over  the  homeless  sea. 


I  bid  thee  weep— consider  what  I  say, 
I  go  towards  the  shore  to  drive  my  ship 
To  mine  own  land,  o'er  the  Sicihan  wave. 

CYCLOPS. 

Not  so,  if  whelming  you  with  this  huge  stone 
I  can  crush  you  and  all  your  men  together; 
I  will  descend  upon  the  shore,  though  blind, 
Groping  my  way  adown  the  steep  ravine. 

ciionrs. 

And  we,  the  shipmates  of  Ulysses  now, 
Will  serve  our  Bacchus  all  our  happy  lives. 


376 


TRANSLATIONS. 


EPIGRAMS. 


SPIRIT  OF  PLATO. 

FROM   THE   GREEK. 

Earlf,  !  why  soarest  thou  above  that  tomb  1 
To  what  subUnie  and  starry-paven  home 

Floatcst  thou  ] 
I  am  the  image  of  swift  Plato's  spirit, 
Ascending  heaven — Athens  does  inherit 

His  corpse  below. 


FROM  THE  GREEK. 

A  MAX  who  was  about  to  hang  himself, 
Finding  a  purse,  then  threw  away  his  rope ; 
The  owner  coming  to  reclaim  his  pelf. 
The  halter  found  and  used  it.     So  is  Hope 
Changed  for  Despair — one  laid  upon  the  shelf. 
We  take  the  other.     Under  heaven's  high  cope 
Fortune  is  God — all  you  endure  and  do 
Depends  on  circmnstance  as  much  as  you. 


TO  STELLA. 


FROM    PLATO. 


Thou  wert  the  morning  star  among  the  living, 
Ere  thy  fair  light  had  fled  ; — 

Now,  having  died,  thou  art  as  Hesperus,  giving 
New  splendour  to  the  dead. 


FROM  PLATO. 


Kissing  Helena,  together 
With  my  kiss,  my  soul  beside  it 
Came  to  my  lips,  and  there  I  kept  it, — 
For  the  poor  thing  had  wandered  thither. 
To  follow  where  the  kiss  should  guide  it, 
0,  cruel  I,  to  intercept  it ! 


SONNETS  FROM  THE  GREEK  OF  MOSCHUS. 


Tov  uXa  Tav  yXavKav  orav  (iivcfio;  dTptfta  fiaWi], — k.  t.  X. 


I. 

When  winds  that  move  not  its  calm  surface  sweep 
The  azure  sea,  I  love  the  land  no  more : 
The  smiles  of  the  serene  and  tranquil  deep 
Tempt  my  unquiet  mind. — But  when  the  roar 
Of  ocean's  gray  abyss  resounds,  and  foam 
Gathers  upon  the  sea,  and  vast  waves  burst, 
I  turn  from  the  drear  aspect  to  the  home 
Of  earth  and  its  deep  woods,  where,  interspersed. 
When  winds  blow  loud,  pines  make  sweet  melody ; 
Whose  house  is  some  lone  bark,  whose  toil  the  sea, 
Whose  prey,  the  wandering  fish,  an  evil  lot 
Has  chosen. — But  I  my  languid  limbs  will  fling 
Beneath  the  plane,  where  the  brook's  murmuring 
Moves  the  calm  spirit  but  disturbs  it  not. 


II. 

Pan  loved  his  neighbour  Echo — ^but  that  child 
Of  Earth  and  Air  pined  for  the  Satyr  leaping ; 
The  Satyr  loved  with  wasting  madness  wild 
The  bright  nymph  Lyda — and  so  the  three  went 

weeping. 
As  Pan  loved  Echo,  Echo  loved  the  Satyr ; 
The    Satyr,    Lyda — and    thus     love     consumed 

them. — 
And  thus  to  each — which  was  a  woful  matter — 
To  bear  what  they  inflicted,  justice  doomed  them ; 
For,  inasmuch  as  each  might  hate  the  lover. 
Each,  loving,  so  was  hated. — Ye  that  love  not 
Be  warned — in  thought  turn  this  example  over, 
That,  when  ye  love,  the  like  return  ye  prove  not. 


SONNET  FROxM  THE  ITALIAN  OF  DANTE. 


DANTE    ALIGHIERI    TO    GUIDO    CAVALCANTI. 

Guino,  I  would  that  Lappo,  thou,  and  I, 
Led  by  some  strong  enchantment,  might  ascend 
A  magic  ship,  whose  charmed  sails  should  fly 
With  winds  at  will  where'er  our  thoughts  might 
So  that  no  change,  nor  any  evil  chance,      [wend. 
Should  mar  our  joyous  voyage ;  but  it  might  be, 


That  even  satiety  should  still  enhance 
Between  our  hearts  their  strict  community  ; 
And  that  the  bounteous  wizard  then  would  place 
Vanna  and  Bice  and  my  gentle  love. 
Companions  of  our  wandering,  and  would  grace 
With  passionate  talk,  wherever  we  might  rove, 
Our  time,  and  each  were  as  content  and  free 
As  I  believe  that  thou  and  I  should  be. 


SCENES    FROM    CALDERON. 


377 


SCENES 


THE  "MAGICO  PRODIGIOSO"  OF  CALDERON 


CvrnuN  as  a  Siudent ;  Clarin  and  Moscox  as  poor 
Scholars,  loilh  books. 


Is  the  sweet  solitude  of  this  cahn  place, 

This  intricate  wild  wilderness  of  trees 

And  flowers  and  undergrowth  of  odorous  plants, 

Leave  me ;  the  books  you  brought  out  of  the  house 

To  me  are  ever  best  society. 

And  whilst  with  glorious  festival  and  song 

Antioch  now  celebrates  the  consecration 

Of  a  proud  temple  to  great  Jupiter, 

And  bears  his  image  in  loud  jubilee 

To  its  new  shrine,  I  would  consume  what  still 

Lives  of  the  dying  day,  in  studious  thought, 

Far  from  the  throng  and  turmoil.    You,  my  friends. 

Go  and  enjoy  the  festival ;  it  will 

Be  worth  the  labour,  and  return  for  me 

When  the  sun  seeks  its  grave  among  the  billows. 

Which  among  dim  gray  clouds  on  the  horizon 

Dance  like  white  plumes  upon  a  hearse ; — and  here 

I  shall  expect  you. 

MOSCOX. 

I  cannot  bring  my  mind, 
Great  as  my  haste  to  see  the  festival 
Certainly  is,  to  leave  you.  Sir,  without 
Just  saying  some  three  or  four  hundred  words. 
How  is  it  possible  that  on  a  day 
Of  such  festivity,  you  can  bring  your  mind 
To  come  forth  to  a  solitary  country 
With  three  or  four  old  books,  and  turn  your  back 
On  all  this  mirth  1 

CLAHIX. 

My  master's  in  the  right ; 
There  is  not  any  thing  more  tiresome 
Than  a  procession  day,  with  troops  of  men, 
And  dances,  and  all  that. 


From  first  to  last, 
Clarin,  you  are  a  temporizing  flatterer ; 
You  praise  not  what  you  feel,  but  what  he  does ; 
Toadeatcr ! 

CLARiy. 

You  lie — under  a  mistake — 
For  this  is  the  most  civil  sort  of  lie 
That  can  be  given  to  a  man's  face.     I  now 
Say  what  I  think. 


Enough,  you  foolish  fellows. 

Pufled  up  with  your  own  doting  ignorance, 

You  alwa}'s  take  the  two  sides  of  one  question. 

Now  go,  and  as  I  said,  return  for  me 

When  night  falls,  veiling  in  its  shadows  wide 

This  glorious  fabric  of  the  universe. 

"MOSCOX. 

How  happens  it,  although  you  can  maintain 
The  folly  of  enjoying  festivals, 
That  yet  you  go  there  ] 

CLARIS". 

Nay,  the  consequence 
Is  clear  : — who  ever  did  what  he  advises 
Others  to  do  ]^— 

Moscoy. 
Would  that  my  feet  were  wings, 
So  would  I  fly  to  Livia. 

{Eiit. 
CLAIIIX. 

To  speak  truth, 
Li\ia  is  she  who  has  surprised  my  heart ; 
But  he  is  more  than  half  way  there. — Soho  ! 
Livia,  I  come ;  good  sport,  Li\ia,  soho ! 

[Exit. 

CYPHIAX. 

Now  since  I  am  alone,  let  me  examine 

The  question  which  has  long  disturbed  my  mind 

With  doubt,  since  first  I  read  in  Plinius 

The  words  of  mj^stic  import  and  deep  sense 

In  which  he  defines  God.     My  intellect 

Can  find  no  God  with  whom  these  marks  and  signs 

Fitly  agree.     It  is  a  hidden  truth 

Which  I  must  fathom. 

[Reads. 
Enter  the  Devil,  as  a  fine  Gentleman. 
D.T.MOX. 

Search  even  as  thou  wilt. 

But  thou  shalt  never  find  what  I  can  hide. 

CTPniAX. 

What  noise  is  that  among  the  boughs  ?  Who  moves  ! 
What  art  thou  1 — 

D.JESfOV. 

''  'Tis  a  foreign  gentleman. 

Even  fi-ftm  this  morning  I  have  lost  my  way 


378 


TRANSLATIONS. 


In  this  wild  place,  and  my  poor  horse,  at  last 
Quite  ovcrcotne,  has  stretched  himself  upon 
The  enamelled  tapestry  of  this  mossy  mount^iin, 
And  feeds  and  rests  at  the  same  time.     I  was 
Upon  my  way  to  Antioch  upon  husincss 
Of  some  importance,  hut  wrapt. up  in  cares 
(Who  is  exempt  from  this  inheritance!) 
I  parted  from  my  company,  and  lost 
My  way,  and  lost  my  servants  and  my  comrades. 

CTPniAX. 

'Tis  singular,  that,  even  within  the  sight 

Of  the  high  towers  of  Antioch,  you  could  lose 

Your  way.     Of  all  the  avenues  and  green  paths 

Of  this  wild  wood  there  is  not  one  but  leads, 

As  to  its  centre,  to  the  walls  of  Antioch ; 

Take  which  you  will  you  cannot  miss  your  road. 

And  such  is- ignorance  !     Even  in  the  sight 
Of  knowledge  it  can  draw  no  profit  from  it. 
But,  as  it  still  is  early,  and  as  I 
Have  no  acquaintances  in  Antioch, 
Being  a  stranger  there,  I  will  even  wait 
The  few  surviving  hours  of  the  day. 
Until  the  night  shall  conquer  it.     I  see, 
Both  by  your  dress  and  by  the  books  in  which 
You  find  delight  and  company,  that  you 
Are  a  great  student ; — for  my  part,  I  feel 
Much  sympathy  with  such  pursuits. 


Studied  much  1 — 


Have  yau 


No ; — and  yet  I  know  enough 
Not  to  be  wholly  ignorant. 


CrPHIAX. 

Pray,  Sir, 


What  science  may  you  know  1 — • 


Many. 


Alas! 


Much  pains  must  we  expend  on  one  alone, 
And  even  then  attain  it  not ; — but  you 
Have  the  presumption  to  assert  that  you 
Know  many  without  stu<ly. 

j).t;Moy. 

And  with  truth. 
For,  in  the  counfr}'^  whence  I  come,  sciences 
Require  no  learning, — they  aro  known. 

crpniAJT. 

Oh,  would 
I  were  of  that  bright  country  !  for  in  this 
The  more-we  study,  we  the  more  discover 
Our  ignorance. 

DiEMOX. 

It  is  so  true  that  I 
Had  sj  much  arrogance  as  to  opjiose 
The  chair  of  the  most  high  Professorship, 
Arid  obtained  many  votes,  and  though  I  lost. 


The    attempt  was    still    more    glorious   than    the 

failure 
Could  be  dishonourable  :  if  you  believe  not. 
Let  us  refer  to  dispute  respecting 
That  which  you  know  best,  and  although  I 
Know  not  the  opinion  jou  maintain,  and  though 
It  be  the  true  one,  I  will  take  the  contrary. 

CYPRIAJf. 

The  ofTer  gives  me  pleasure.     I  am  now 
Debating  with  myself  upon  a  passage 
Of  Pliiiius,  and  my  mind  is  racked  with  doubt 
To  understand  and  know  who  is  the  God 
Of  whom  he  speaks. 

D.^MOX. 

It  is  a  passage,  if 
I  recollect  it  right,  couched  in  these  words : 
"God  is  one  supreme  goodness,  one  pure  essence, 
One  substance,  and  one  sense,  all  sight,  all  hands." 


'Tis  true. 


d;emox. 
What  difficulty  find  you  here  1 


CTPHIAJf. 

I  do  not  recognise  among  the  Gods 

The  God  defined  by  Plinius  ;  if  he  must 

Be  supreme  goodness,  even  Jupiter 

Is  not  supremely  good  ;  because  we  see  •>• 

His  deeds  are  evil,  and  his  attributes 

Tainted  with  mortal  weakness.     In  what  manner 

Can  supreme  goodness  be  consistent  with 

The  passions  of  humanity  1 

DXMON. 

The  wisdom 
Of  the  old  world  masked  with  the  names  of  Gods 
The  attributes  of  Nature  and  of  Man ; 
A  sort  of  popular  philosophy. 

CYPRIAN. 

This  reply  will  not  satisfy  me,  for 

Such  awe  is  due  to  the  high  name  of  God, 

That  ill  should  never  be  imputed.     Then, 

Examining  the  question  with  more  care. 

It  follows,  that  the  gods  should  always  will 

That  which  is  best,  were  they  supremely  good. 

How  then  does  one  will  one  thing — one  another  ? 

And  you  may  not  say  that  I  allege 

Poetical  or  philosophic  learning  : — 

Consider  the  ambiguous  responses 

Of  their  oracular  statues;  from  two  shrines 

Two  armies  shall  obtain  the  assurance  of 

One  victory.     Is  it  not  indisputable 

That  two  contending  wills  can  never  lead 

To  the  same  end  1   And,  being  opposite, 

If  one  be  good  is  not  the  other  evil  ] 

Evil  in  God  is  inconceivable  ; 

But  supreme  goodness  falls  among  the  gods 

Without  their  union. 


I  deny  your  major. 
These  responses  are  means  towards  some  end 
Unfathomed  by  our  intellectual  beam. 
They  are  the  work  of  providence,  and  more 


SCENES    FROM    CALDERON. 


379 


The  battle's  loss  may  profit  those  who  lose, 
Thaii  victory  advantage  those  who  win. 


That  I  admit,  and  yet  that  God  should  not 
(Falsehood  isinconipatible  with  deity) 
Assure  the  victory,  it  would  be  enough 
To  have  permitted  the  defeat ;  if  God 
Be  all  siglit, — God,  who  beheld  the  truth. 
Would  not  have  given  assurance  of  an  end 
Never  to  be  accomplished;  thus,  although 
The  Ueity  may  according  to  his  attributes 
Be  well  distinguished  into  persons,  yet, 
Even  in  the  minutest  circumstance. 
His  essence  must  be  one. 


To  attain  the  end. 
The  affections  of  the  actors  in  the  scene 
Must  have  been  thus  intiuenced  by  his  voice. 


But  for  a  purpose  thus  subordinate 

He  might  have  employed  genii,  good  or  evil,- 

A  sort  of  spirits  called  so  by  the  learned. 

Who  roam  about  inspiring  good  or  evil, 

And  from  whose  influence  and  existence  we 

May  well  infer  our  immortality  : — ■ 

Thus  God  might  easily,  without  descending 

To  a  gross  falsehood  in  his  proper  person. 

Have  moved  the  affections  by  this  mediation 

To  the  just  point. 


These  trifling  contradictions 
Do  not  suffice  to  impugn  the  unity 
Of  the  high  gods  ;  in  things  of  great  importance 
They  still  appear  unanimous ;  consider 
That  glorious  fabric — man,  his  workmanship, 
•  Is  stamped  with  one  conception. 

CTPHIAX. 

Who  made  man 
Must  have,  methinks,  the  advantage  of  the  others 
If  they  are  equal,  might  they  not  have  risen 
In  opposition  to  the  work,  and  being 
All  hands,  according  to  our  author  here, 
Have  still  destroyed  even  as  the  other  made  T 
If  equal  in  their  power,  and  only  unequal 
In  opportunity,  which  of  the  two 
Will  remain  conqueror  1 


On  impossible 
And  false  hypothesis,  there  can  be  built 
No  argument.     Say,  what  do  you  infer 
From  this  ] 


That  there  must  be  a  mighty  God 
Of  supreme  goodness  and  of  highest  grace. 
All  sight,  all  hands,  all  truth,  infallible. 
Without  an  equal  and  without  a  rival ; 
The  cause  of  all  things  and  the  effect  of  nothing, 
One  power,  one  will,  one  substance,  and  one  essence. 
And  in  whatever  persons,  one  or  two. 
His  attributes  may  be  disthiguished,  one 


Sovereign  ])ower,  one  solitary  essence, 
One  cause  of  all  cause. 

[Tltey  rise 
D.'EMOy. 

How  can  I  impugn 
So  clear  a  consequence  ? 


cri'iiiAV. 


Do  you  recrret 


My  victory  T 


Who  but  rejects  a  check 
In  rivalry  of  wit  ]     I  could  reply 
And  urge  new  difficulties,  but  will  now 
Depart,  for  I  hear  steps  of  men  approaching, 
And  it  is  time  that  I  should  now  pursue 
My  journey  to  the  city. 

CYPRIAN". 

Go  in  peace  ! 

DJEMOX.     - 

Remain  in  peace  !  Since  thus  it  profits  him 
To  study,  I  will  wrap  his  senses  up 
In  sweet  oblivion  of  thought  but  of 
A  piece  of  excellent  beauty ;  and  as  I 
Have  power  given  me  to  wage  enmity 
Against  Justina's  soul,  I  will  extract 
From  one  effect  two  vengeances. 

lEiit. 

CXPBIAX. 

I  never 
Met  a  more  learned  person.     Let  me  now 
Revolve  this  doubt  again  with  careful  mind. 

[//e  reads. 
Enter  Lelio  and  Floko. 

iF.LIO. 

Here  stop.     Those   toppling   rocks    and   tangled 
Impenetrable  by  the  noonday  beam  [boughs 

Shall  be  sole  witnesses  of  what  we — 

FLono. 

Draw  ! 

If  there  were  words,  here  is  the  place  for  deeds. 

LEHO. 

Thou  needest  not  instruct  me  ;  well  I  know 
That  in  the  field  the  silent  tongue  of  steel 
Speaks  thus. 

[Theyjight. 

CTPnlAN. 

Ha !  what  is  this  ?  Leho,  Floro, 
Be  it  enough  that  Cyprian  stands  between  you. 
Although  unarmed. 

LELlO. 

Whence  comest  thou,  to  stand 
Between  me  and  my  vengeance  ] 


fLono. 


From  what  rocks 


And  desert  cells  ? 

Enter  MoscoN  and  Clabix. 

MOSCOX". 

Run.  run  !  for  where  we  left;  my  master, 
We  hear  the  clash  of  swords. 


380 


TRANSLATIONS. 


I  never 
Run  to  approach  things  of  this  sort,  but  only 
To  avoid  them.     Sir !  C3-prian  !  Sir  ! 

CYPKIAX. 

Be  silent,  fellows !   What !  two  frientls  who  are 
In  blood  and  fame  the  cyos  and  hope  of  Antioch; 
One  of  the  noble  men  of  the  Colatti, 
The  other  son  of  the  Governor,  adventure 
And  cast  away,  on  some  slight  cause  ho  doubt, 
Two  lives,  the  honour  of  their  country  1 

LELtO. 

Cyprian, 
Although  my  high  respect  towards  your  person 
Holds  now  my  sword  suspended,  thou  canst  not 
Restore  it  to  the  slumber  of  its  scabbard. 
Thou  knowest  more  of  science  than  the  duel ; 
For  when  two  men  of  honour  take  the  field. 
No  counsel  nor  respect  can  make  them  fiiends, 
But  one  must  die  in  the  pursuit. 

FLOBO. 

I  pray . 
That  you  depart  hence  with  your  people,  and 
Leave  us  to  finish  what  we  have  begun 
Without  advantagie. 

CTPniAX. 

Though  you  may  imagine 
That  I  know  little  of  the  laws  of  duel, 
Which  vanity  and  valour  instituted, 
You  are  in  error.     By  my  birth  I  am 
Held  no  less  than  yourselves  to  know  the  hmits 
Of  honour  and  of  infamy,  nor  has  study 
Quenched  the  free  spirit  which  first  ordered  them  ; 
And  thus  to  me,  as  one  well  experienced 
In  the  false  quicksands  of  the  sea  of  honour, 
You  may  refer  the  merits  of  the  case  ; 
And  if  I  should  perceive  in  your  relation 
That  either  has  the  right  to  satisfaction 
From  the  other,  I  give  you  my  word  of  honour 
To  leave  you. 

I.KLTO. 

Under  this  condition  then 
I  will  relate  the  cause,  and  you  will  cede 
And  must  confess  the  impossibility 
Of  compromise ;  for  the  same  lady  is 
Beloved  by  Floro  and  myself. 

FLOUO. 

It  seems 
Much  to  me  that  the  light  of  day  should  look 
Upon  that  idol  of  my  heart — but  he — 
Leave  us  to  fight,  according  to  thy  word. 

CYPRIAN". 

Permit  one  question  further :  is  the  lady 
Impossible  to  hope  or  not  1 

LELIO. 

She  is 
So  excellent,  that  if  the  li'^ht  of  day 
Should  excite  Floro's  jealousy,  it  were 
W^ithout  just  cause,  for  even  the  light  of  day 
Trembles  to  gaze  on  her. 


Part  marry  her  1 


CTPHIAN. 

Would  you  for  your 


rLOKO. 

Such  is  my  confidence. 

CYPRIAS. 

And  you  ? 

lELIO. 

O,  would  that  I  could  lift  my  hope 
So  high !  for  though  she  is  extremely  poor, 
Her  virtue  is  her  dowry. 

CYPRIAN. 

And  if  you  both 
Would  marry  her,  is  it  not  weak  and  vain, 
Culpable  and  unworthy,  thus  beforehand 
To  slur  her  honour  1    What  would  the  world  say 
If  one  should  slay  the  other,  and  if  she 
Should  afterwards  espouse  the  murderer  1 

[TIte  rivals  agree  to  refer  their  quarrel  to  Ctprian; 
■ttlic  in  consequence  visits  Jistina,  and  becomes, 
enamoured  of  her:  she  disdains  him,  and  he  re- 
tires to  a  solitary  sea-shore. 


SCENE  n. 


cyphian. 


O  memory  !  permit  it  not 

That  the  tyrant  of  my  thought 

Be  another  soul  that  still 

Holds  dominion  over  the  will  ; 

That  would  refuse  but  can  no  more, 

To  bend,  to  tremble,  and  adore. 

Vain  idolatry  ! — I  saw. 

And  gazmg  became  blind  with  error ; 

Weak  ambitiorl,  which  the  awe 

Of  her  presence  bound  to  terror ! 

So  beautiful  she  was —  and  I, 

Between  my  love  and  jealousy. 

Am  so  convulsed  with  hope  and  fear. 

Unworthy  as  it  may  appear ; 

So  bitter  is  the  life  I  five. 

That,  hear  me,  Hell !  I  now  would  give 

To  thy  most  detested  spirit 

My  soul,  for  ever  to  inherit. 

To  suffer  punishment  and  pine, 

So  this  woman  may  be  mine. 

Hear'st  thou.  Hell !  dost  thou  reject  it  ? 

My  soul  is  offered ! 

D.EMOS  (unseen.) 

I  accept  it 
{^Tempest,  with  thunder  and' lightning 

CYPRIAN. 

What  is  this !  ye  heavens,  for  ever  pure. 
At  once  intensely  radiant  and  obscure ! 

Athwart  the  ethereal  halls 
The  lightning's  arrow  and  the  thunder-balls 

The  day  affright. 

As  from  the  horizon  round. 

Burst  with  earthquake  sound, 
In  mighty  torrents  the  electric  fountains  ; — 
Clouds  quench  the  sun,  and  thunder  smoke 


SCENES    FROM    CALDERON. 


381 


Strangles  the  air,  and  fire  eclipses  heaven. 
Philosophy,  thou  canst  not  even 
Compel  their  causes  underneath  thy  yoke, 
From  vonilcr  clouds  even  to  the  waves  below 
The  fra!2;ments  of  a  single  ruin  choke 

Imagination's  flight ; 
For,  on  flakes  of  surge,  like  feathers  light, 
The  ashes  of  the  desolation  cast 

Upon  the  gloomy  blast. 
Tell  of  the  footsteps  of  the  storm. 
And  nearer  see  the  melancholy  form 
Of  a  great  ship,  the  outcast  of  the  sea, 

Drives  miserably! 
And  it  must  fly  the  pity  of  the  port, 
Or  perish,  and  its  last  and  sole  resort 
Is  its  own  raging  enemy. 

The  terror  of  the  thrilling  cry 
Was  a  fatal  prophecy 
Of  coming  death,  who  hovers  now 
Upon  that  shattered  prow, 
That  they  who  die  not  may  be  dying  still. 
And  not  alone  the  insane  elements 
Are  populous  with  wild  portents, 
But  that  sad  ship  is  as  a  miracle 
Of  sudden  ruin,  for  it  drives  so  fast 
It  seems  as  if  it  had  arrayed  its  form 
With  the  headlong  storm. 
It  strikes — I  almost  feel  the  shock, — 
It  stumbles  on  a  jagged  rock, — 
Sparkles  of  blood  on  the  white  foam  are  cast. 
A  tempest — ill  exclaim  witliin 
We  are  all  lost ! 

DJBMON  (within.') 

Now  from  this  plank  will  I 
Pass  to  the  land,  and  thus  fulfil  my  scheme. 

CTPRIAN. 

As  in  contempt  of  the  elemental  rage 

A  man  comes  forth  in  safety,  while  the  ship's 

Great  form  is  in  a  watery  eclipse 

Obliterated  from  the  Ocean's  page, 

And  round  its  wreck  the  huge  sea  monsters  sit, 

A  horrid  conclave,  and  the  whistling  wave 

Are  heaped  over  its  carcass,  like  a  grave. 

TTie  D^MON  enters  as  escaped  from  the  sea. 

D^jioiT  (aside.) 

It  was  essential  to  my  purposes 
To  wake  a  tumult  on  the  sapphire  ocean, 
That  in  this  unknown  form  I  might  at  length 
Wipe  out  the  blot  of  the  discomfiture 
Sustained  upon  the  mountain,  and  assail 
With  a  new  war  the  soul  of  Cyprian, 
Forging  the  instruments  of  his  destruction 
Even  from  his  love  and  from  his  wisdom. — 0 
Beloved  earth,  dear  mother,  in  thy  bosom 
I  seek  a  refuge  from  the  monster  who 
Precipitates  itself  upon  me. 

CYPRIAN. 

Friend, 
Collect  thyself;  and  be  the  memory 
Of  thy  late  suffering,  and  thy  greatest  sorrow, 


But  as  a  shadow  of  the  past, — for  nothing 
Beneath  the  circle  of  the  moon  but  flows 
And  changes,  and  can  never  know  repose. 

n.E-Mox. 
And  who  art  thou,  before  whose  feet  my  fate 
Has  prostrated  me  ? 

CTPKIAX. 

One  who,  moved  with  pity, 
Would  soothe  its  stings. 

DJEMOIS'. 

Oh !  that  can  never  be ! 
No  solace  can  my  lasting  sorrows  find. 

CTPRIAX. 

Wherefore  1 

DiEMON. 

Because  my  happiness  is  lost. 
Yet  I  lament  what  has  long  ceased  to  be 
The  object  of  desire  or  memory 
And  my  life  is  not  life. 

CTPRIAX. 

Now,  since  the  fury 
Of  this  earthquaking  hurricane  is  still. 
And  the  crj'stalline  heaven  has  reassumed 
Its  windless  calm  so  quickly,  that  it  seems 
As  if  its  heavy  wrath  had  been  awakened 
Onlj'  to  overwhelm  that  vessel, — speak,  ' 

Who  art  thou,  and  whence  comest  thou  ? 

BjEJrON. 

Far  more 

My  coming  hither  cost  than  thou  hast  seen. 
Or  I  can  tell.     Among  my  misadventures 
This  sliipwreck  is  the  least.     Wilt  thou  hear  1 

CTPRIAJT. 

Speak. 

DJEMOX. 

Since  thou  desirest,  I  will  then  unveil 

Myself  to  thee  : — for  in  myself  I  am 

A  world  of  happiness  and  misery  ; 

This  I  have  lost,  and  that  I  must  lament 

For  ever.     In  my  attributes  I  stood 

So  high  and  so  heroically  great. 

In  lineage  so  supreme,  and  with  a  genius 

Which  penetrated  with  a  glance  the  world 

Beneath  my  feet,  that  won  by  my  high  merit 

A  king— whom  I  may  call  the  King  of  kings. 

Because  all  others  tremble  in  their  pride 

Before  the  terrors  of  his  countenance. 

In  his  high  palace  roofed  with  brightest  gems 

Of  living  light — call  them  the  stars  of  Heaven — 

Named  me  liis  counsellor.     But  the  high  praise 

Stung  me  with  pride  and  envy,  and  I  rose 

In  mighty  competition,  to  ascend 

His  seat,  and  place  my  foot  triumphantly 

Upon  his  subject  thrones.     Chastised,  I  know 

The  depth  to  which  ambition  falls ;  too  mad 

Was  the  attempt,  and  yet  more  mad  were  now 

Repentance  of  the  irrevocable  deed  ; — 

Therefore  I  chose  this  ruin  with  the  glory    • 

Of  not  to  be  subdued,  before  the  shame 

Of  reconciling  me  with  him  who  reigns 


362 


TRANSLATIONS. 


By  coward  cession. — Nor  was  I  alone, 

Nor  am  I  now,  nor  shall  I  be  alone ; 

And  there  was  hope,  and  there  may  still  be  hope, 

For  many  suffrages  among  his  vassals 

Hailed  me  their  lord  and  king,  and  many  still 

Are  mine,  and  many  more  perchance  shall  be. 

Thus  vanquished,  though  in  fact  victorious, 

I  left  his  seat  of  empire,  from  mine  eye 

Shooting   forth   poisonous   lightning,   while    my 

words 
With  inauspicious  thundcrings  shook  Heaven, 
Proclaiming  vengeance,  public  as  my  wrong. 
And  imprecating  on  his  prostrate  slaves 
Rapine  and  death,  and  outrage.     Then  I  sailed 
Over  the  mighty  fabric  of  the  world, 
A  pirate  ambushed  in  its  pathless  sands, 
A  lynx  crouched  watchfully  among  its  caves 
And  craggy  shores ;  and  I  have  wandered  over 
The  expanse  of  these  wide  wildernesses 
In  this  great  ship,  whose  bulk  is  now  dissolved 
In  the  light  breathings  of  the  invisible  wind, 
And  which  the  sea  has  made  a  dustless  ruin. 
Seeking  ever  a  mountain,  through  whose  forests 
I  seek  a  man,  whom  I  must  now  compel 
To  keep  his  word  with  me.     I  came  arrayed 
In  tempest,  and  although  my  power  could  well 
Bridle  the  forest  winds  in  their  career, 
For  other  causes  I  forbore  to  soothe 
Their  fury  to  Favonian  gentleness; 
I  could  and  would  not:  (thus  I  wake  in  him  [Aside. 
A  love  of  magic  art.)     Let  not  this  tempest, 
Nor  the  succeeding  calm  excite  thy  wonder; 
For  by  my  art  the  sun  would  turn  as  pale 
As  his  weak  sister  with  unwonted  fear ; 
And  in  my  wisdom  are  the  orbs  of  Heaven 
Written  as  in  a  record.     I  have  pierced 
The  flaming  circles  of  their  wondrous  spheres. 
And  know  them  as  thou  knowest  every  corner 
Of  this  dim  spot.     Let  it  not  seem  to  thee 
That  I  boast  vainly ;  wouldst  thou  that  I  work 
A  charm  over  this  waste  and  savage  wood, 
This  Babylon  of  crags  and  aged  trees. 
Filling  its  leafy  coverts  with  a  horror 
ThriUing  and  strange  1   I  am  the  friendless  guest 
Of  these  wild  oaks  and  pines — and  as  from  thee 
I  have  received  the  hospitality 
Of  this  rude  place,  I  otfer  thee  the  fruit 
Of  years  of  toil  in  recompense;  whate'cr 
Thy  wildest  dream  presented  to  thy  thought 
As  object  of  desire,  that  shall  be  thuie. 


And  thenceforth  shall  so  firm  an- amity 
'Twixt  thou  and  me  be,  that  neither  fortune. 
The  monstrous  phantom  which  pursues  success, 
That  careful  miser,  that  free  prodigal, 
Who  ever  alternates  with  changeful  hand 
E\'il  and  good,  reproach  and  fame;  nor  Time, 
That  loadstar  of  the  ages,  to  whose  beam 
The  winged  years  speed  o'er  the  intervals 
Of  their  unequal  revolutions ;  nor 
Heaven  itself,  whose  beautiful  bright  stars 
Rule  and  adorn  the  world,  can  ever  make 
The  least  division  between  thee  and  me. 
Since  now  I  find  a  refuge  in  thy  favour. 


SCENE  m. 

The  D.EMON  tempts  Justina,  -iclio  is  a  Christian. 


Abyss  of  IIcll !  I  call  on  thee. 

Thou  wild  misrule  of  thine  own  anarchy  ! 

From  thy  prison-house  set  free 

The  spirits  of  voluptuous  death. 

That  with  their  mighty  breath 

They  may  destroy  a  world  of  virgin  thoughts ; 

Let  her  chaste  mind  with  fancies  thick  as  motes 

Be  peopled  from  thy  shadowy  deep, 

Till  her  guiltless  phantasy 

Full  to  overflowing  be  ! 

And,  with  sweetest  harmony,  [move 

Let  birds,  and  flowers,  and  leaves,  and  all  things 

To  love,  only  to  love. 

Let  nothing  meet  her  eyes 

But  signs  of  Love's  soft  victories; 

Let  nothing  meet  her  ear 

But  sounds  of  Love's  swe'et -sorrow ; 

So  that  from  faith  no  succour  may  she  borrow, 

But,  guided  by  my  spirit  blind 

And  in  a  magic  snare  entwined. 

She  may  now  seek  Cyprian. 

Begin,  while  I  in  silence  bind 

My  voice,  when  thy  sweet  song  thou  hast  begun. 

A    VOICE    WITHIJf. 

\A^hat  is  the  glory  far  above 
All  else  in  human  life  1 

Love !  love ! 

[Jt'hile  these  words  are  sung^,  the  Daemon  goes  out  at 
one  door,  and  Justina  enters  at  another. 

THE    FIRST    TOICE. 

There  is  no  form  in  which  the  fire 
Of  love  its  traces  has  impressed  not. 
Man  lives  far  more  in  love's  desire 
Than  by  life's  breath  soon  possessed  not. 
If  all  that  lives  must  love  or  die, 
All  shapes  on  earth,  or  sea,  or  sky. 
With  one  consent  to  Heaven  cry 
That  the  glory  far  above 
All  else  in  life  is — 

ALT,. 

Love !  O  love  ! 


Thou  melancholy  thought,  which  art 
So  fluttering  and  so  sweet,  to  thee 
When  did  I  give  the  liberty 
Thus  to  artlict  my  heart  1 
What  is  the  cause  of  this  new  power 
Which  doth  my  fevered  being  move, 
Momently  raging  more  and  more  ] 
What  subtle  pain  is  kindled  now 
Which  from  my  heart  doth  overflow 
Into  my  senses? — 

ALL. 

Love,  O  love! 


SCENES    FROM    CALDERON. 


383 


'Tis  that  enamoured  nightingale 
Who  gives  nic  the  reply  : 
He  ever  tells  the  same  soft  talc 
Of  passion  and  of  constiincy 
To  his  mate,  who  rapt,  and  fond, 
Listening  sits,  a  bough  beyond. 

Be  silent,  Nightingale  ! — No  more 

Make  me  think,  in  hearing  thee 

Thus  tenderly  thy  love  deplore, 

If  a  bird  can  feel  his  so. 

What  a  man  would  feel  for  me. 

And,  voluptuous  vine,  O  thou 

Who  spekest  most  when  least  pursuing, — 

To  the  trunk  thou  interiacest 

Art  the  verdure  which  cmbraccst, 

And  the  weight  which  is  its  ruin, — 

No  more,  with  green  embraces,  vine, 

Make  me  think  on  what  tliou  lovest, — 

For  whilst  thou  thus  thy  boughs  entwine, 

I  fear  lest  thou  shouldst  teach  me,  sophist, 

How  arms  might  be  entangled  too. 

Light-enchanted  sunflower,  thou 
Who  gazest  ever  true  and  tender 
On  the  sun's  revolving  splendour, 
Follow  not  his  faithless  glance 
With  thy  faded  countenance. 
Nor  teach  my  beating  heart  to  fear. 
If  leaves  can  mourn  without  a  tear, 
How  eyes  must  weep!   0  Nightingale, 
Cease  from  thy  enamoured  tale, — 
Leafy  vine,  unwreath  thy  bower, 
Restless  sunflower,  cease  to  move,— 
Or  tell  me  all,  what  poisonous  power . 
Ye  use  against  me. — 

ALl. 

Love !  love  !  love ! 

JUSTIXA. 

It  cannot  be  !   Whom  have  I  ever  loved  ! 
Trophies  of  my  oblivion  and  disdain, 
Floro  and  Lelio  did  I  not  reject  1 
And  Cyprian? — 

[SAe  becomes  troubled  at  the  name  of  Cyprian. 

Did  I  not  requite  him 
With  such  severity,  that  he  has  fled 
Where  none  has  ever  heard  of  him  again? — 
Alas!  I  now  begin  to  fear  that  this    . 
May  be  the  occasion  whence  desire  grows  bold. 
As  if  there  were  no  danger.     From  the  moment 
That  I  pronounced  to  my  own  listening  heart, 
Cyprian  is  absent,  O  miserable  me ! 
I  know  not  what  I  feel !  ]_J\Iore  calmhj. 

It  must  be  pity 
To  think  that  such  a  man,  whom  all  the  world 
Admired,  should  be  forgot  by  all  the  world. 
And  I  the  cause.  [.Site  again  becomes  troubled. 

And  yet  if  it  were  pity, 
Floro  and  Lelio  might  have  equal  share, 
For  they  are  both  imprisoned  for  my  sake.  [Calmly. 
Alas !  what  reasonings  are  these  T   It  is 


Enough  I  pity  him,  and  that,  in  vain, 

Without  this  ceremonious  sul)tlety. 

And  wo  is  me  !   I  know  not  where  to  find  him  now, 

Even  should  I  seek  him  through  this  wide  world. 

Enter  Daemon. 

UiEMOX. 

Follow,  and  I  will  lead  thee  where  he  is. 

JUSTIXA. 

And  who  art  thou,  who  hast  found  entrance  hither, 
Into  my  chamber  through  the  doors  and  locks  ] 
Art  thou  a  monstrous  shadow  which  my  madness 
Has  formed  in  the  idle  air  ] 

BJiMOX. 

No.     I  am  one 

Called  by  the  thought  which  tyrannizes  thee 
From  his  eternal  dwelling ;  who  this  day 
Is  pledged  to  bear  thee  unto  Cyprian. 

JUSTIJfA. 

So  shall  thy  promise  fail.     This  agony 
Of  passion  which  afflicts  my  heart  and  soul 
May  sweep  imagination  in  its  storm ; 
The  will  is  firm. 

D.EM  ON. 

Already  half  is  done 
In  the  imagination  of  an  act. 
The  sin  incurred,  the  pleasure  then  remains ; 
Let  not  the  will  stop  half  way  on  the  road. 

JUST IX A. 

I  will  not  be  discouraged,  nor  despair. 
Although  I  thought  it,  and  although  'tis  true 
That  thought  is  but  a  prelude  to  the  deed ; — 
Thought  is  not  in  my  power,  but  action  is : 
I  will  not  move  my  foot  to  follow  thee. 

n.TSMox. 
But  a  far  mightier  wisdom  than  tliine  own 
Exerts  itself  within  thee,  with  such  power 
Compelling  thee  to  that  which  it  inclines 
That  it  shall  force  thy  step ;  how  wilt  thou  then 
Resist,  Justina] 

JUSTINA. 

By  my  free-will. 


Must  force  thy  will. 

JUSTIXA. 

It  is  invincible ; 
It  were  not  free  if  thou  hadst  power  upon  it. 

[He  draws,  but  cannot  viuce  her. 
DiEMOJf. 

Come,  where  a  pleasure  waits  thee. 

JCSTIJfA. 

It  were  bought 
Too  dear. 

niEMOV. 

'Twill  soothe,  thy  heart  to  softest  peace. 

JUSTINA. 

'Tis  dread  captivity. 


384 


TRANSLATIONS. 


D^MOX. 

'Tisjoy,  'tis  glory. 

JU|TINA. 

'Tis  shame,  'tis  torment,  'tis  despair 

nsMOjf. 

But  how 
Canst  thou  defend  thyself  from  that  or  me, 
If  my  power  drags  thee  orrward  1 

jrSTINA. 

My  defence 
Consists  in  God. 

[IJe  vainly  endeavours  to  force  her,  and  at  last 
releases  her. 

DiEMON. 

Woman,  thou  hast  subdued  me, 
Only  by  not  owning  thyself  subdued. 
But  since  thou  thus  findest  defence  in  God, 
I  will  assume  a  feigned  form,  and  thus 
Make  thee  a  victim  of  my  baffled  rage. 
For  I  will  mask  a  spirit  in  thy  form 
Who  will  betray  thy  name  to  infamy. 
And  doubly  shall  I  triumph  in  thy  loss, 
First  by  dishonouring  thee,  and  then  by  turning 
False  pleasure  to  true  ignominy.  [Ezii. 

JUSTI>"A. 

I 

Appeal  to  Heaven  against  thee !  so  that  Heaven 
May  scatter  thy  delusions,  and  the  blot 
Upon  my  fame  vanish  in  idle  thought, 
Even  as  flame  dies  in  the  envious  air. 
And  as  the  flow'rct  wanes  at  morning  frosi, 

And  thou  shouldst  never Butj  alas  !  to  whom 

Do  I  still  speak  1 — Did  not  a  man  but  now 
Stand  here  before  me] — No,  I  am  alone. 
And  yet  I  saw  him.     Is  he  gone  so  quickly  ! 
Or  can  the  heated  mind  engender  shapes 
From  its  own  fear?   Some  terrible  and  strange 
Peril  is  near.     Lisander !  father !  lord 
Livia ! — 

Enter  Lisander  and  Livia. 

LISAJfDEH. 

0  my  daughter;  whatl 

XIVIA. 

What? 

jusTirrA. 

Saw  you 
A  man  go  forth  from  my  apartment  now  ? — 

1  scarce  sustain  myself! 

LISANDKH. 

A  man  here ! 


JUSTIN A. 

Have  you  not  seen  him  1 

ilVIA. 

No,  lady. 

jrSTINA. 

I  saw  him. 

tISA:XDEH. 

'Tis  impossible ;  the  doors 
Which  led  to  this  apartment  were  all  locked. 

LiTiA  (aside.) 
I  dare  say  it  was  Moscon  whom  she  saw 
For  he  was  locked  up  in  my  room. 

XISAJJDEH. 

It  must 
Have  been  some  image  of  thy  phantasy. 
Such  melancholy  as  thou  feedest  is 
Skiltul  iji  forming  such  in  the  vain  air 
Out  of  the  motes  and  atoms  of  the  day. 

LITIA. 

My  master's  in  the  right. 

jrSTIXA. 

Oh,  would  it  were 
Delusion  !  but  I  fear  some  greater  ill. 
I  feel  as  if  out  of  my  bleeding  bosom 
My  heart  was  torn  in  fi-agments;  ay. 
Some  mortal  spell  is  wrought  against  my  frame ; 
So  potent  was  the  charm,  that  had  not  God 
Shielded  my  humble  innocence  from  wrong, 
I  should  have  sought  my  sorrow  and  my  shame 
With  willing  steps. — Livia,  quick,  bring  my  cloak, 
For  I  must  seek  refuge  from  these  extremes 
Even  in  the  temple  of  the  highest  God 
Which  secretly  the  faithful  worship. 

LIVIA. 

Here. 

jusTiKA  (puffing  on  her  cloak.) 

In  this,  as  in  a  shroud  of  snow,  may  I 

Quench  the  consuming  fire  in  which  I  bum, 

Wasting  away ! 

LISANDER. 

And  I  will  go  with'thee. 

LIVIA. 

When  I  once  see  them  safe  out  of  the  house, 
I  shall  breathe  freely. 

JUSTINA. 

So  do  I  confide 
In  thy  just  favour.  Heaven ! 

LISANDEH. 

Let  us  go. 

JUSTINA. 

Thine  is  the  cause,  great  God !  Turn,  for  my  sake 
And  for  thine  own,  mercifully  to  me ! 


SCENES  FROM  FAUST, 


3H5 


SCENES 
rrxOM  THE  FAUST  OF  GOETHE. 


PROLOGUE    IN    HEAVEN. 

The  Lord  and  the  Host  of  Heaven. 
Enter  Three  Archam^els, 


The  sun  makes  music  as  of  old 

Amid  the  rival  spheres  of  Heaven, 
On  its  predestined  circle  rolled 

With  thunder  speed  :  the  Angels  even 
Draw  strength  fronl  gazing  on  its  glance, 

Though  none,  its  meaning  fathom  may  ;- 
The  world's  unwithered  countenance 

Is  bright  as  at  creation's  day. 


And  swift  and  swift,  with  rapid  lightness. 

The  adorned  Earth  spins  silently. 
Alternating  Elysian  brightness 

With  deep  and  dreadful  night ;  the  sea 
Foams  in  broad  billows  from  the  deep 

Up  to  the  rocks ;  and  rocks  and  ocean, 
Onward,  with  spheres  which  never  sleep. 

Are  hurried  in  eternal  motion. 


And  tempests  in  contention  roar 

From  land  to  sea,  from  sea  to  land 
And,  raging,  weave  a  chain  of  power 

Which  girds  the  earth  as  with  a  band. 
A  flashing  desolation  there 

Flames  before  the  thunder's  way ; 
But  thy  servants,  Lord,  revere 

The  gentle  changes  of  thy  day. 

CHORUS    OF    THE    THREE. 

The  Angels  draw  strength  from  thy  glance. 
Though  no  one  comprehend  thee  may : — 

Thy  world's  unwithered  countenance 
Is  bright  as  on  creation's  day.* 

*  RAPHAEL. 

The  sun  sountls,  accordins  to  ancient  custom. 
In  the  sons  of  emulation  ot'his  brother-spheres, 
And  its  fore-written  circle 
Fulfils  with  a  step  of  thunder. 
Its  countenance  gives  the  Angels  strength, 
Thouijh  no  one  can  fathom  it. 
The  incredible  hi^'h  works 
Are  excellent  as  at  the  first  daj-. 
49 


Enter  Mephistopheles. 


MEPHISTOPHELES. 


As  thou,  O  Lord,  once  more  art  kind  enough 

To  interest  thyself  in  our  aflairs — 

And  ask,  "  How  goes  it  with  you  there  below?" 

And  as  indulgently  at  other  times 

Thou  tooked.st  not  my  visits  in  ill  part. 

Thou  sce.stmehere  once  more  among  thy  household. 

Though  I  should  scandalize  this  company. 

You  will  excuse  me  if  I  do  not  talk 

In  the  high  style  which  they  think  fashionable ; 

My  pathos  certainly  would  make  you  laugh  too, 

Had  you  not  long  since  given  over  laughing. 

Nothing  know  I  to  say  of  suns  and  worlds; 

I  ob.serve  only  how  men  plague  themselves ; — 

The  little  god  o'the  world  keeps  the  same  stamp. 

As  wonderful  as  on  creation's  day : — 

A  little  better  would  he  live,  hadst  thou 

Not  given  him  a  glimpse  of  Heaven's  light 

Which  he  calls  reason,  and  employs  it  only 

To  live  more  beastily  than  any  beast. 


And  swift,  and  inconceivably  swift 
The  adornment  of  earth  winds  itself 
And  e.xchannes  Paradise-clearness 
With  deep  dreadful  night. 
The  sea  foains  in  broad  waves 
Frorii  its  deep  bottom  up  to  the  rocks. 
And  rocks  and  sea  are  torn  on  together 
In  the  eternal  swift  course  of  the  spheres. 

MICHAEL. 

And  storms  roar  in  emulation 
From  sea  to  land,  from  land  to  sea. 
And  make,  raging,  a  chain 
Of  deepest  operation  round  about. 
There  flames  a  flashing  destruction 
Before  the  path  of  the  thunderbolt. 
But  thy  servants,  Lord,  revere 
The  gentle  alternations  of  thy  day. 

CHORliS. 

Thy  countenance  gives  the  Angels  strength, 
Tliough  none  can  comprehend  thee  : 
And  all  thy  lofty  works 
Are  excellent  as  at  the  first  day. 

Such  is  the  literal  translation  of  this  astonishing 
Chorus;  it  is  impossible  to  represent  in  another  lan- 
guage the  melody  of  the  versification  ;  even  the  volatile 
strength  and  delicacy  of  the  ideas  escape  in  the  crucible 
of  translation,  and  the  reader  is  surprised  to  find  a  caput 
mortuum. — Jiutkor's  JVoJe. 

2K 


386 


TRANSLATIONS. 


With  reverence  to  your  lordship  he  it  spoken, 
He's  like  one  of  those  long-legged  grasshoppers 
Who  flits  and  jumps  about,  and  sings  for  ever 
The  same  old  song  i'  the  grass.    There  let  him  lie, 
Burying  his  nose  in  every  heap  of  dung. 

THE    LOHD. 

Have  you  no  more  to  say  1     Do  you  come  here 
Always  to  scold,  and  cavil,  and  complain  ] 
Seems  nothing  ever  right  to  you  on  earth  ] 

MF.PHISTOPHELES. 

No,  Lord;  I  find  all  there,  as  ever,  bad  at  best. 
Even  I  am  sorry  for  man's  days  of  sorrow ; 
I  could  mj'self  almost  give  up  the  pleasure 
Of  plaguing  the  poor  things. 

THE    LORD. 

Knowest  thou  Faust  1 


The  Doctor  ] 


MEPHISTOPHELES. 
THE    LORD. 

Ay ;  my  servant  Faust 


MEPHISTOPHELES. 

In  truth 
He  serves  you  in  a  fashion  quite  his  own. 
And  the  fool's  meat  and  drink  are  not  of  earth. 
His  aspirations  bear  him  on  so  far 
That  he  is  half  aware  of  his  own  folly, 
For  he  demands  from  heaven  its  fairest  star, 
And  from  the  earth  the  highest  joy  it  bears ; 
Yet  all  things  far,  and  all  things  near,  are  vain. 
To  calm  the  deep  emotions  of  his  breast. 

THE    LORD. 

Though  he  now  serves  me  in  a  cloud  of  error, 
I  will  soon  lead  him  forth  to  the  clear  day. 
When  trees  look  green,  full  well  the  gardener  knows 
That  fruits  and  blooms  will  deck  the  coming  year. 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

What  will  you  bet? — now  I  am  sure  of  winning — 
Only  observe  you  give  mc  full  permission 
To  lead  him  softly  on  my  path. 

THE    LORD. 

As  along 
As  he  shall  live  upon  the  earth,  go  long 
Is  nothing  unto  thee  forbidden. — Man 
Must  err  till  he  has  ceased  to  struggle. 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

Thanks. 
And  that  is  all  I  ask ;  for  willingly 
I  never  make  acquaintance  with  the  dead. 
The  full  fresh  checks  of  youth  are  food  for  me, 
And  if  a  corpse  knocks,  I  am  not  at  home. 
For  I  am  like  a  cat — I  like  to  play 
A  little  with  the  mouse  before  I  eat  it. 

THE    LORD. 

Well,  well,  it  is  permitted  thoe.     Draw  thou 
His  spirit  from  its  springs ;  as  thou  find'st  power, 
Seize  him  and  lead  him  on  thy  downward  path; 
And  stand  ashamed  when  failure  teaches  thee 
That  a  good  man,  even  in  his  darkest  longings, 
Is  well  aware  of  the  right  way. 


MEPHISTOPHELES. 

Well  and  good. 
I  am  not  in  much  doubt  about  my  bet, 
And,  if  I  lose,  then  'tis  your  turn  to  crow ; 
Enjoy  your  triumph  then  with  a  full  breast. 
Ay ;  dust  shall  he  devour,  and  that  with  pleasure, 
Like  my  old  paramour,  the  famous  Snake. 

THE    LORD. 

Pray  come  here  when  it  suits  you ;  for  I  never 
Had  much  dislike  for  people  of  )-our  sort. 
And,  ,among  all  the  Spirits  who  rebelled. 
The  knave  was  ever  the  least  tedious  to  me. 
The  active  spirit  of  man  soon  sleeps,  and  soon 
He  seeks  unbroken  quiet;  therefore  I 
Have  given  him  the  Devil  for  a  companion. 
Who  may  provoke  him  to  some  sort  of  work, 
And  must  create  for  ever. — But  ye,  pure 
Children  of  God,  enjoy  eternal  beauty  ; — 
Let  that  which  ever  operates  and  lives 
Clasp  you  within  the  limits  of  its  love ; 
And  seize  with  sweet  and  melancholy  thoughts 
The  floating  phantoms  of  its  loveliness. 

\^Heatert  closes ;  the  Archangels  exevnt. 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

From  time  to  time  I  nsit  the  old  fellow, 

And  I  take  care  to  keep  on  good  terms  with  him. 

Civil  enough  is  this  same  God  Almighty, 

To  talk  so  freely  with  the  Devil  himself. 


SCENE. 


MAY-DAY  NIGHT. 

The  Bartz  Mountain,  a  desolate  Country. 

FAUST,  MEPHISTOPHELES. 
MEPHISTOPHELES. 

Would  you  not  like  a  broomstick  1    As  for  me 

I  wish  I  had  a  good  stout  ram  to  ride ; 

For  we  are  still  far  from  th'  appointed  place. 

FAUST. 

This  knotted  staff"  is  help  enough  for  me. 

Whilst  I  feel  fresh  upon  my  legs.     What  good 

Is  there  in  making  short  a  pleasant  way  1 

To  creep  along  the  labyrinths  of  the  vales. 

And  climb  those  rocks,  where  ever-babbling  springs 

Precipitate  themselves  in  waterfalls. 

In  the  true  sport  that  seasons  such  a  path. 

Already  Spring  kindles  the  birchen  spraV, 

And  the  hoar  pines  already  feel  her  breath: 

Shall  sho  not  work  also  within  our  limbs  7 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

Nothing  of  such  an  influence  do  I  feel. 

My  body  is  all  wintry,  and  I  wish 

The  flowers  upon  our  path  were  frost  and  snow. 

But  see,  how  melancholy  rises  now, 

Dimly  uplifting  her  l)elated  beam. 

The  blank  unwelcome  round  of  the  red  moon, 

And  gives  so  bad  a  light,  that  every  step 

One  stumbles  'gainst  some  crag.     With  your  per- 

I'O  call  an  Ignis-fatuus  to  our  aid :  [mission 

I  see  one  yonder  burning  jollily. 


SCENES    FROM    FAUST. 


387 


Halloo,  my  friend !  may  I  request  that  you 
Would  favour  us  with  your  bright  company  ^ 
Why  should  you  blaze  away  there  to  no  purpose  1 
Pray  be  so  good  as  light  us  up  this  way. 

IfiNIS-FATUUS. 

With  reverence  be  it  spoken,  I  will  try 
To  overcome  the  lightness  of  my  nature  ; 
Our  course,  you  know,  is  generally  zig-zag. 

MEPHISTOPHELKS. 

Ha,  ha !  your  worship  thinks  you  have  to  deal 
With  men.     Go  straight  on  in  the  Devil's  name, 
Or  I  shall  pull' your  flickering  life  out. 


IGSriS-FATUUS. 


Well 


I  sec  you  are  the  master  of  the  house ; 

I  will  accommodate  myself  to  you. 

Only  consider  that  to-nighl  this  mountain 

Is  all  enchanted,  and  if  Jack-a-lanfcrn 

Shows  you  his  way,  though  you  should  miss  your 

own. 
You  ought  not  to  be  too  exact  with  him. 

Faust,  Mephistopheles,  and  Ignis-fatuus  in  alter- 
nate Chorus. 

The  limits  of  the  sphere  of  dream, 

The  bounds  of  true  and  false,  are  past. 
Lead  us  on,  thou  wandering  Gleam, 

Lead  us  onward,  far  and  fast, 

To  the  wide,  the  desert  waste. 
But  sec,  how  swift  advance  and  shift 

Trees  behind  trees,  row  by  row, — 
How,  clift  by  clift,  rocks  bend  and  lift 

Their  frowning  foreheads  as  we  go. 

The  giant-snouted  crags,  ho  !  ho  ! 

How  they  snort,  and  how  they  blow ! 

Through  the  mossy  sods  and  stones, 
Stream  and  streamlet  hurry  down, 
A  rushing  throng !     A  sound  of  song 
Beneath  the  vault  of  Heaven  is  blown'. 
Sweet  notes  of  love,  the  speaking  tones 
Of  this  bright  day,  sent  down  to  say 
That  Paradise  on  Earth  is  known, 
Resound  around,  beneath,  above. 
All  we  hope  and  all  we  love 
Finds  a  voice  in  this  bhthe  strain. 
VVliich  wakens  hill  and  wood  and  rill. 
And  vibrates  far  o'er  field  and  vale, 
And  which  Echo,  like  the  tale 
Of  old  times,  repeats  again. 

To-whoo !  to-whoo  !  near,  nearer  now 

The  sound  of  song,  the  rushing  throng ! 

Are  the  Screech,  the  lapwing  and  the  jay, 

All  awake  as  if  'twere  day  ] 

See,  with  long  legs  and  belly  wide, 

A  salamander  in  the  brake  ! 

Every  root  is  like  a  snake, 

And  along  the  loose  hill  side. 

With  strange  contortions  through  the  night. 

Curls,  to  seize  or  to  affright ; 

And  animated,  strong,  and  many. 

They  dart  forth  polypus-antennse. 


To  blister  with  their  poison  spume 

'J'he  wanderer.     Through  the  dazzling  gloom 

'I'he  many-coloured  mice  that  thread 

'J'he  dewy  turf  beneath  our  tread. 

In  troops  each  other's  motions  cross, 

Through  tii.e  heath  and  through  the  moss; 

And  ill  legions  intortangled, 

I'he  I'lrellies  flit,  and  swarm,  and  throng, 

'J'iil  all  the  mountain  depths  arc  spangled. 

Tell  me,  shall  we  go  or  siay  1 

Shall  we  onward  ]     Come  along ! 

Every  thing  around  is  swept 

Forward,  onward,  far  away  ! 

Trees  and  masses  intercept 

The  siglit,  and  wisps  on  every  side 

Are  puffed  up  and  multiplied. 


JIEPHISTOPHELES. 


Now  vigorously  seize  my  skirt,  and  gain 
This  pinnacle  of  isolated  crag. 
One  may  observe  with  wonder  from  this  point 
How  Mammon  glows  among  the  mountains. 


Ay- 

And  strangely  through  the  solid  depth  below 
A  melancholy  light,  like  the  red  dawn, 
Shoots  from  the  lowest  gorge  of  the  abyss 
Of  mountains,  lighting  hitherward  ;  there,  rise 
Pillars  of  smoke ;  here,  clouds  float  gently  by  ; 
Here  the  light  burns  soft  as  the  enkindled  air, 
Or  the  illumined  dust  of  golden  flowers ; 
And  now  it  glides  like  tender  colours  spreading ; 
And  now  bursts  forth  in  fountains  fi-om  the  earth; 
And  now  it  winds  one  torrent  of  broad  Ught, 
Through  the  far  valley  with  a  hundred  veins ; 
And  now  once  more  within  that  narrow  corner 
Masses  itself  into  intensest  splendour. 
And  near  us  see  sparks  spring  out  of  the  ground, 
Like  golden  sand  scattered  upon  the  darkness ; 
The  pinnacles  of  that  black  wall  of  mountains 
That  hems  us  in  are  kindled. 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

Rare,  in  faith ! 
Does  not  Sir  Mammon  gloriously  illuminate 
His  palace  for  this  festival — it  is 
A  pleasure  which  you  had  not  known  before. 
I  spy  the  boisterous  guests  already. 


How 

The  children  of  the  wind  rage  in  the  air ! 

With  what  fierce  strokes  they  fall  upon  my  neck  ! 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

Cling  tightly  to  the  old  ribs  of  the  crag. 
Beware  !  for  if  with  them  tliou  w.irrest 
In  their  fierce  flight  towards  the  wilderness. 
Their  breath  will  sweep  thee  into  dust,  and  drag 
Thy  body  to  a  grave  in  the  abyss. 

A  cloud  thickens  the  night. 
Hark  !  how  the  tempest  crashes  through  the  forest ! 

The  owls  fly  out  in  strange  aflright ; 
The  columns  of  the  evergreen  palaces 


388 


TRANSLATIONS. 


Are  split  and  shattered  ; 

The  roots  crcuk,  and  stretch,  and  groan ; 

And  ruinously  overthrown, 

The  trunks  are  crushed  and  shattered 

By  the  tierce  blast's  unromjuerable  stress. 

Over  each  other  crack  and  crash  they  all 

In  terrible  and  intertangled  fall ; 

And  through  the  ruins  of  the  shaken  mountain 

The  airs  hiss  and  liowl — > 
It  is  not  the  voice  of  the  fountain, 
Nor  the  wolf  in  his  midnight  prowl. 
Dost  thou  not  here  1 

Strange  accents  arc  ringing 
Aloft,  afar,  anear ; 

The  witches  arc  singing  ! 
The  torrent  of  a  raging  wizard's  song 
Streams  the  whole  mountain  along, 

CHORUS    OF    WITCHES. 

The  stubble  is  yellow,  the  corn  is  green, 
Now  to  the  Brockcn  the  witches  go ; 
The  mighty  multitude  here  may  be  seen 
Gathering,  wizard  and  witch,  below. 
Sir  Urean  is  sitting  aloft  in  the  air  ; 
Hey  over  stock  !   and  hey  over  stone  ! 
'Twixt  witches  and  incubi,  what  shall  be  done  1 
Tell  it  who  dare  !  tell  it  who  dare  ! 


Upon  a  sow-swine,  whose  farrows  were  nijie, 
Old  Baubo  rideth  alone. 


Honour  her  to  whom  honour  is  due, 
Old  mother  Baubo,  honour  to  you  ! 
An  able  sow  with  old  Baubo  upon  her. 
Is  worthy  of  glory,  and  worthy  of  honour  ! 
The  legion  of  witches  is  coming  behind. 
Darkening  the  night  and  outspeeding  the  wind — 

A    VOICE. 

Which  way  comest  thou  1 

A    VOICE. 

Over  Ilsenstein ; 
The  owl  was  awake  in  the  white  moon-shine ; 
I  saw  her  at  rest  in  her  downy  nest, 
And  she  stared  at  me  with  her  broad  bright  eyne. 


And  you  may  now  as  well  take  your  course  on  to 

Hell, 
Since  you  ride  by  so  fast  on  the  headlong  blast. 


She  dropt  poison  upon  me  as  I  past. 
Here  arc  the  wounds — 

CHOUCS    OF    WITCHES. 

Come  away  !  come  along ! 
The  way  is  wide,  the  way  is  long. 
But  what  is  that  for  a  Bedlam  throng ! 
Stick  with  the  prong,  and  scratch  with  the  broom. 
The  child  in  the  cradle  lies  strangled  at  home, 
And  the  mother  is  clapping  her  hands — 


Sr.MlCHORUS    OF    WIZAIHIS     I. 

We  glide  in 
Like  snails  when  the  women  are  all  away  ; 
And  from  a  house  once  given  over  to  sin 
Woman  has  a  thousand  steps  to  stray. 

SEMlCHOnCS    II. 

A  thousand  steps  must  a  woman  take. 
Where  a  man  but  a  single  spring  will  make. 

VOICES    ABOVE. 

Come  with  us,  come  with  us,  from  Felunsee. 

VOICES     BELOW. 

With  what  joy  would  we  fly  through  the  upper  skj' ! 
We  are  washed,  wc  are  'nointed,  stark  naked  are  we; 
But  our  toil  and  our  pain  are  for  ever  in  vain. 

BOTH    CHORUSSES. 

The  wind  is  still,  the  stars  are  fled, 
The  melancholy  moon  is  dead  ; 
The  magic  notes,  like  spark  on  spark, 
Drizzle,  whistling  through  the  dark. 
Come  away  ! 

VOICES     BELOW. 

Stay,  oh  stay  ! 

VOICES    ABOVE.. 

Out  of  the  ci'annics  of  the  rocks 
Who  calls  ] 

VOICES    BELOW. 

Oh,  let  me  join  your  flocks  ! 

I,  three  hundred  years  have  striven 

To  catch  your  skirt  and  mount  to  Heaven, — • 

And  still  in  vain.     Oh,  might  I  be 

With  company  akin  to  me  ! 

BOTH    CHORUSSES. 

Some  on  a  ram  and  some  one  a  prong. 

On  poles  and  on  broomsticks  we  flutter  along; 

Forlorn  is  the  wight  who  can  rise  not  to-night. 

A    HALF     WITCH     BELOW. 

I  have  been  trippling  this  many  an  hour : 
Are  the  others  already  so  far  before  1 
No  quiet  at  home,  and  no  peace  abroad  ! 
And  less  methinks  is  found  by  the  road. 

CHORUS    OF    WITCHES. 

Come  onward,  away  !  aroint  thee,  aroint ! 
A  witch  to  be  strong  must  anoint — anoint- 
Then  every  ti-ough  will  be  boat  enough  ; 
W^ith  a  rag  for  a  sail  we  can  sweep  through  the  sky, 
Who  flies  not  to-night,  when  means  he  to  fly  1 

BOTH     CHORUSSES. 

We  cling  to  the  skirt,  and  we  strike  on  the  ground ; 
Witch-legions  thicken  around  and  aroimd  ; 
Wizard-swarms  cover  the  heath  all  o\er, 

[They  descend. 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

What  thronging,  dashing,  raging,  rustling ! 
What  whispering,  babbling,  hissing,  bustling  ! 
What  glinimcring,  spurting,  stinking,  burning! 
As  Heaven  and  earth  were  overturning; 


SCENES    FROM    FAUST- 


389 


There  is  a  true  witch  element  ahout  us  ; 
Take  hold  oa  nie,  or  we  shall  be  divided  : — 
Where  are  you  ] 

FAUST  (from  a  distance.) 
Here! 

MEPHISTOPHKI,F.S. 

What! 
I  must  exert  my  authority  in  the  house. 
Place  for  young  Voland !   Pray  make  way,  good 

people. 
Take  hold  on  me,  doctor,  and  with  one  step 
Let  us  escape  from  this  unpleasant  crowd : 
They  are  too  mad  for  people  of  my  sort. 
Just  there  shines  a  peculiar  kind  of  light — 
Something  attracts  me  in  those  bushes. — Come 
This  way ;  we  shall  slip  down  there  in  a  minute. 

FAUST. 

Spirit  of  Contradiction  !   Well,  lead  on — 
'Twere  a  wise  feat  indeed  to  wander  out 
Into  the  Brocken  upon  May-day  night, 
And  then  to  isolate  oneself  in  scorn, 
Disgusted  with  the  humours  of  the  time. 

JIKPinSTOPHELES. 

See  yonder,  round  a  many-coloured  flame 
A  merry-club  is  huddled  all  together  ; 
Even  with  such  little  people  as  sit  there 
One  would  not  be  alone. 


Would  that  I  were 
Up  yonder  in  the  glow  and  wliirling  smoke 
Where  the  blind  million  rush  impetuously 
To  meet  the  evil  ones ;  there  might  I  solve 
Many  a  riddle  that  torments  me  ! 


MEPHISTOPHELES. 


Yet 


rii 


Many  a  riddle  there  is  tied  anew 
Inextricably.     Let  the  great  w^orld  rage  ! 
We  will  stay  here  safe  in  the  quiet  dwellings. 
'Tis  an  old  custom.     Men  have  ever  built 
Their  own  small  world  in  the  great  world  of  all 
I  see  young  witches  naked  there,  and  old  ones 
Wisely  attired  with  greater  decency. 
Be  guided  now  by  me,  and  you  shall  buy 
A  pound  of  pleasure  with  a  dram  of  trouble. 
I  hear  them  tune  their  instruments — one  must 
Get  used   to   this  damned  scraping.     Come, 

lead  you 
Among  them ;  and  what  there  you  do  and  see, 
As  a  fresh  compact  'twixt  us  two  shall  be. 


How  say  you  now  1  this  space  is  wide  enough — 
Look  forth,  you  cannot  see  the  end  of  it — • 
A  hundred  bonfires  bum  in  rows,  and  they 
Who  throng  around  them  seem  innumerable  : 
Dancing  and  drinking,  jabbering,  making  love. 
And  cooking,  are  at  work.     Now  tell  rne,  friend, 
What  is  there  better  in  the  world  than  this  ] 


In  introducing  us,  do  you  assume 
The  character  of  wizard  or  of  devil  1 


MEPHISTOPIIELES. 

In  truth  I  generally  go  about 

In  strict  incognito  ;  and  yet  one  likes 

To  wear  one's  orders,  upon  gala  days. 

I  have  no  ribbon  at  my  knee  ;  but  here 

At  home  the  cloven  foot  is  honourable. 

See  you  that  snail  there  1 — she  comes  creeping  up, 

And  with  her  feeling  eyes  hathsmelt  out  something: 

I  could  not,  if  I  would,  mask  myself  here. 

Come  now  we'll  go  about  from  lire  to  fire  : 

I'll  be  the  pimp,  and  you  shall  be  the  lover. 

[7*0  some  old  JVi)men,  who  arc  silling  round  a  heap 
of  glimmcrini^  coals. 

Old  gentlewomen,  what  do  you  do  out  here  ! 
You  ought  to  be  with  the  young  rioters 
Right  in  the  thickest  of  the  rcvelrj' — 
But  every  one  is  best  content  at  home. 

GENERA! 

Who  dare  confide  in  right  or  a  just  claim  ! 

So  much  as  I  had  done  for  them !  and  now — 
With  women  and  the  people  'tis  the  same. 

Youth  will  stand  foremost  ever, — age  may  go 
To  the  dark  grave  uidionoured. 

5IIXISTER. 

Now-a-days 
People  assert  their  rights :  they  go  too  far ; 

But,  as  for  me,  the  good  old  times  I  praise. 
Then  we  were  all  in  all ;  'twas  something  worth 

One's  while  to  be  in  place  and  w^ear  a  star ; 
That  was  indeed  the  golden  age  on  earth. 

PAHVESU.* 

We  too  are  active,  and  we  did  and  do 

What  we  ought  not  perhaps  ;  and  yet  we  now 

Will  seize,  vi'hilst  all  things  are  whirled  round  and 

round 
A  spoke  of  Fortune's  wheel,  and  keep  our  ground. 

AUTHOR. 

Who  now  can  taste  a  treatise  of  deep  sense 
And  ponderous  volume  ?     'Tis  impertinence 
To  write  what  none  will  read,  therefore  will  I 
To  please  the  young  and  thoughtless  people  try. 

MEPHisTOPHELEs.    (WIio  ot  oucc  appcurs  to  kuve 
grown  very  old.) 

I  find  the  people  ripe  for  the  last  day. 
Since  I  last  came  up  to  the  wizard  mountain ; 
And  as  my  little  cask  runs  turbid  now, 
So  is  the  world  drained  to  the  dregs. 

PEDLER-WITCH. 

Look  here, 
Gentlemen;  do  not  hurry  on  so  fast, 
And  lose  the  chance  of  a  good  pennyworth. 
I  have  a  pack  full  of  the  choicest  wares 
Of  every  sort,  and  yet  in  all  my  bundle 
Is  nothing  like  what  may  be  found  on  earth ; 
Nothing  that  in  a  moment  will  make  rich 
Men  and  the  world  with  fine  malicious  mischief. — 
There  is  no  dagger  drunk  with  blood ;  no  bowl 
From  which  consuming  poison  may  be  drained 
By  innocent  and  healthy  lips ;  no  jewel, 

*  A  sort  of  fundholder. 


390 


TRANSLATIONS. 


The  price  of  an  abandoned  maiden's  shame; 
No  sword  which  cuts  the  bond  it  cannot  loose, 
Or  stabs  the  wearer's  enemy  in  the  back  ; 
No 

MKPHISTOPIIELES. 

Gossip,  you  know  little  of  these  times. 
What  has  been,  has  been  ;  what  is  done,  is  past. 
They  shape  themselves  into  the  innovations 
They  breed,  and  innovation  drags  us  with  it. 
The  torrent  of  the  crowd  sweeps  over  us ; 
You  think  to  impel,  and  are  yourself  impelled. 

FAUST. 

Who  is  that  yonder  1 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

Mark  her  well.     It  is 


Lilith. 


Whol 


FAUST. 


MEPHISTOPHELES. 


Lilith,  the  first  wife  of  Adam. 
Beware  of  her  fair  hair,  for  she  excels 
All  women  in  the  magic  of  her  locks  ; 
And  when  she  winds  them  round  a  young  man's 

neck, 
She  will  not  ever  set  him  free  again. 


There  sit  a  girl  and  an  old  woman — they 
Seem  to  be  tired  with  pleasure  and  with  play. 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

There  is  no  rest  to-night  for  any  one : 
When  one  dance  ends  another  is  begun ; 
Come  let  us  to  it.     We  shall  have  rare  fun. 

[Faust  dances  and  sings  with  a  Girl,  and  Mephis- 
TOPHELES  with  an  old  Woman. 

BEOCTO-PHAirrASMIST. 

What  is  this  cursed  multitude  about  1 

Have  we  not  long  since  proved  to  demonstration 

That  ghosts  move  not  on  ordinary  feet ! 

But  these  are  dancing  just  like  men  and  women. 

THE    GIRL. 

What  does  he  want  then  at  our  balll 


Oh!  he 
Is  far  above  us  all  in  his  conceit  : 
Whilst  we  enjoy,  he  reasons  of  enjoyment; 
And  any  step  which  in  our  dance  we  tread. 
If  it  be  left  out  of  his  reckoning, 
Is  not  to  be  considered  as  a  step. 
There  are  few  things  that  scandalize  him  not ; 
And,  when  you  whirl  round  in  the  circle  now, 
As  he  went  round  the  wheel  in  his  old  mill. 
He  says  that  you  go  wrong  in  all  respects. 
Especially  if  you  congratulate  him 
Upon  the  strength  of  the  resemblance. 


BnOCTO-PHANTASMIST. 

Fly! 
Vanish !  Unheard-of  impudence !  What,  still  there ! 
In  this  enlightened  age  too,  since  5'ou  have  been 
Proved  not  to  exist ! — But  this  infernal  brood 
Will  hear  no  reason  and  endure  no  rule. 
Are  we  so  wise,  and  is  the  pond  still  haunted  T 
How  long  have  I  been  sweeping  out  this  rubbish 
Of  superstition,  and  the  world  will  not 
Come  clean  with  all  my  pains ! — it  is  a  case 
Unheard  of! 

THE    GIRL. 

Then  leave  off  teasing  us  so. 

brocto-pha:«^tasmist. 

I  tell  you,  spirits,  to  your  faces  now, 
That  I  should  not  regret  this  despotism 
Of  spirits,  but  that  mine  can  wield  it  not. 
To-night  I  shall  make  poor  work  of  it, 
Yet  I  will  take  a  round  with  you,  and  hope 
Before  my  last  step  in  the  living  dance 
To  beat  the  poet  and  the  devil  together. 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

At  last  he  will  sit  down  in  some  foul  puddle ; 
That  is  his  way  of  solacing  himself; 
Until  some  leech,  diverted  with  his  gravity, 
Cures  him  of  spirits  and  the  spirit  together. 

[To  Faust,  who  has  seceded  from  the  dance. 
Why  do  you  let  that  fair  girl  pass  from  you, 
Who  sang  so  sweetly  to  you  in  the  dance  1 


A  red  mouse  in  the  middle  of  her  singing 
Sprang  firom  her  mouth. 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

That. was  all  right,  my  friend: 
Be  it  enough  that  the  mouse  was  not  gray. 
Do  not  disturb  your  hour  of  happiness 
With  close  consideration  of  such  trifles. 


Then  saw  I — 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

What  1 

FAUST. 

Seest  thou  not  a  pale 

Fair  girl,  standing  alone,  far,  far  away  1 
She  drags  herself  now  forward  with  slow  steps. 
And  seems  as  if  she  moved  with  shackled  feet; 
I  cannot  overcome  the  thought  that  she 
Is  hke  poor  Margaret. 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

Let  it  be — pass  on — 
No  good  can  come  of  it — it  is  not  well 
To  meet  it — it  is  an  enchanted  phantom, 
A  lifeless  idol;  with  its  numbing  look, 
It  freezes  up  the  blood  of  man ;  and  they 
Who  meet  its  ghastly  stare  are  turned  to  stone. 
Like  those  who  saw  Medusa. 


SCENES    FROM    FAUST. 


391 


FAUST. 

O,  too  true ! 
Ilor  eyes  are  like  the  eyes  of  a  fresh  corpse 
Which  no  beloved  hand  has  closed.     Alas! 
That  is  the  breast  vvhicii  Margaret  yielded  to  me- 
Thosc  are  the  lovely  limbs  which  I  enjoyed ! 

JItPHISTOrUELES. 

It  is  all  !nagic,  poor  deluded  fool ! 

She  looks  to  every  one  like  his  first  love. 

FAUST. 

Oh  what  delight !  what  wo  !  I  cannot  turn 
My  looks  from  her  sweet  piteous  countenance. 
How  strancrely  does  a  single  blood-red  line, 
IV ot  broader  than  the  sharp  edge  of  a  knife, 
Adorn  her  lovely  neck ! 


aiEI'HISTOPHEI-F.B. 

Ay,  she  can  carry 
Her  head  under  her  arm  upon  occasion ; 
Perseus  has  cut  it  ofl'  for  her.     These  pleasures 
End  in  delusion. — (iain  this  rising  ground, 
It  is  as  airy  here  as  in  a  [  ] 

And  if  I  am  not  mightily  deceived, 
I  see  a  theatre. — What  may  this  mean ! 

ATTENDANT. 

Quite  a  new  piece,  the  last  of  seven,  for  'tis 
The  custom  now  to  represent  that  number. 
'Tis  written  by  a  Dilettante,  and 
The  actors  who  perform  are  Dilettanti ; 
Excuse  me,  gentlemen;  but  I  must  vanish. 
I  am  a  Dilettante  curtain-lifter. 


THE     END 


ie©(0)3E^ 


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the  inspection  of  the  Honorable  Bushrod  Washington,  from  original  papers 

bequeathed  to  him  by  his  deceased  relative,  with  steel  portrait  and  ten 

maps. 
GOLDSMITH'S    WORKS,  Avith  an   account  of  his    Life   and  Writings; 

edited  by  Washington  Irving,  1  vol.,  8vo.,  with  steel  portrait. 
SCOTT'S  POETICAL  WORKS,  1  vol.,  8vo.,  with  a  sketch  of  his  Life, 

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MOORE'S    POETICAL  WORKS,  1    vol.,  8vo.,  including   his    Melodies, 

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BURNS'S  WORKS,  1  vol.,  8vo.,  with  an  account  of  his  Life,  and  Criticism 

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extracted  from  the  late  edition  edited  by  Allan  Cunningham,  with  steel 

portrait,  and  vignette. 
COLERIDGE,  SHELLEY  &  KEATS'S   POETICAL  WORKS,  1  vol., 

8vo.,  with  portrait. 
COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  AND  MISCELLANEOUS  WORKS,  1  vol., 

8vo.,  with  portrait. 
HOWITT,  MILLMAN  &  KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS,  1  vol.,  8vo., 

with  portrait. 
SHELLEY'S  COMPLETE  WORKS,   1  vol.,  8vo.     The  Poetical  Works 

of  Percy  Bysshe   Shelley,  edited  by  Mrs.  Shelley,  from  the  last   London 

edition;  containing  many  Pieces  not  before  published;    with  a  portrait  of 

Shelley,  and  vignette,  on  steel. 
MISS  MITFORD'S  COMPLETE  WORKS,  in  Prose  and  Verse,  viz:   Our 

Village,  Belford    Regis,  Country    Stories,    Finden's    Tableaux,  Foscari, 

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MRS.  OPIE'S  COMPLETE  V^^ORKS,  3  vols.,  super  royal,  containing  many 

pieces  never  publislicd  in  anv  former  edition, 
RUSH    ON   THE    VOICE.— The  Philosophy  of  the  Human  Voice:    em- 

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Analysis  of  Song  and  Recitative.     By  James  Rush,  M.  D.     Third  edition, 

enlarged.     1  vol.,  8vo. 
HISTORY  OF  WYOMING,  in  a  Scries  of  Letters  from  Charles  Miner,  to 

his  son,  William  Penn  Minor,  Esq.,  1  vol.,  8vo. 
CANNING'S  SELECT  SPEECHES,  with  an  Appendix.     Edited  by  Robert 

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